


The Fast Sinking Anchor

by Pennyplainknits



Series: Momentum [3]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Best Friends, Multi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennyplainknits/pseuds/Pennyplainknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://pennyplainknits.dreamwidth.org/146472.html">The Dark Ocean Bottom</a>. Brendon and Ryan come home. Spencer adapts, or tries to. Also  featuring Ian, Dallon, and a whole lot of pining</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fast Sinking Anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hermette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermette/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** So, so not true or related to the real people in any way whatsoever
> 
> This is the second in what I'm calling, as per [](http://hermette.livejournal.com/profile)[**hermette**](http://hermette.livejournal.com/) 's request, the Momentum series. Once again, huge huge thanks to [](http://hermette.livejournal.com/profile)[**hermette**](http://hermette.livejournal.com/) who came up with the idea the first place, who audienced parts of it and provided last minute support. Giant thanks to [](http://lalejandra.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lalejandra**](http://lalejandra.dreamwidth.org/) for the very thorough beta and suggestions- sorry I didn't indclude them all  <3\. she also came up with the line about Mark Hoppus. And fond thanks also to [](http://violet-doll.livejournal.com/profile)[**violet_doll**](http://violet-doll.livejournal.com/) , [](http://jenepod.livejournal.com/profile)[**jenepod**](http://jenepod.livejournal.com/) , [](http://kopperblaze.livejournal.com/profile)[**kopperblaze**](http://kopperblaze.livejournal.com/) and [](http://ladyfoxxx.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyfoxxx**](http://ladyfoxxx.livejournal.com/) who read bits in email. I promise I'll stop spamming twitter with fic updates now.

  


"Brendon!" Spencer calls as he spots him the airport crowds. He's half sure he's imagining it, because Brendon's not alone. He's leaning into another guy, heads bent together like they're sharing secrets. It can't be, Spencer thinks, it _can't_ , but then Brendon is breaking away and hurrying toward him, dodging the crowds, running someone over with the wheel of his suitcase, and Spencer's opening his arms automatically as Brendon barrels into him and wraps him up in a tight hug.

Brendon squeezes hard enough to hurt, and Spencer's so relieved that he's back here, whole, and, seemingly, happy. He opens his eyes and looks over Brendon's shoulder, and he was _right_. It's Ryan.

His hair is longer than the last time Spencer saw him, loose curls down past his ears, and despite just getting off of a transatlantic flight, he looks good, clear-eyed and happy. Spencer just has no idea what he's doing there.

Brendon lets go slowly and steps back, and smiles brilliantly. But it's a stage smile, Spencer realises, which means something's up.

"I bought you something," he says, and for a second, Spencer wants to yell, because of all the places they could do this, this is possibly the worst; but Ryan's setting down the guitar case and his bags, and taking a half-step forward, and another, and Spencer can't be mad, because it's _Ryan_ and he's here, and Ryan puts his arms around him and hugs him, so tight, tighter even than Brendon. Spencer fits his face into the crook of Ryan's neck so he doesn't have to look at Brendon and wonders what the hell is going on. Ryan smells of airplane and something woodsy, and, oddly, the same coconutty stuff that Brendon uses on his hair.

"Hi," Ryan says softly. "Hey, Spin, I'm home." The stupid pet name makes Spencer cling on harder, until Brendon clears his throat.

"Guys," he says warningly, and Spencer lets go.

"I want explanations," he says as Ryan picks the guitar up again, because he can't really understand what was going on. The last thing he knew, Ryan was in Europe, and while he and Brendon had some kind of tentative friendship again, it wasn't kind of one that survived transatlantic flights.

"When we get home," Brendon says. "I need a shower and food."

Spencer leads the way to the parking lot and pops the trunk so they can load in their cases. It's not until Brendon climbs into the back with Ryan instead of riding up front that Spencer starts to put the pieces together.

"Guys?" he asks, glancing into the review mirror to confirm that yes, they are holding hands. Ryan's head is drooping onto Brendon's shoulder. He always crashes right after the airplane lands, and his eyes are half closed already. Brendon rests his cheek on top of Ryan's head, and for a second Spencer sees them superimposed on top of their teenage selves, the first few flights they took on that first tour, Brendon's boundless energy the only thing that got them from airport to motel, the two of them half-carrying Ryan the last few steps.

"I c'n explain," Ryan mumbles.

"When we get home," Brendon cuts in, "I promise, just, can we go home?"

"Ryan, Do you want me to drop you off first?" Spencer asks, but he doesn't really want to drive the extra hour to drop Ryan off, and he's nearly asleep, snuffling into Brendon's shoulder, so Spencer just merges on the freeway that will take them to Brendon's apartment.

Spencer helps carry the bags inside, and, because he's thirsty even if the others aren't, fishes cans of soda out of the fridge. Brendon reaches around him to grab one, and Spencer puts his hand out to stop him from moving.

"Brendon," he says, "what are you doing?"

"I don't know." Brendon shrugs and smiles a little awkwardly. "I know, I know it's weird, but it's what I want. It's what Ryan wants too."

Spencer looks past him to where Ryan's asleep on the couch, shoes kicked off, head pillowed on one hand like always.

"Are you mad?" Brendon asks suddenly, and Spencer reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.

"No," he says, because he isn't. This is what he's wanted, Brendon and Ryan friends again. He just hadn't expected it to happen like _this_. "I'm just kind of confused. You have some kind of nervous breakdown and disappear off to England, the next thing I know you're sleeping with Ryan."

"It wasn't a nervous breakdown, fuck you," Brendon says. Spencer just stares at him. "Oh. You were really worried," he says after a few seconds.

"What gave it away?" Spencer asks. Brendon hugs him then, and now that Spencer knows to look, he can smell the hint of Ryan's cologne on Brendon's skin. It's...weird.

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, "I really am. But I'm fine now, I just needed to get away. And I really did bring you a present, Ryan's just a -- a bonus."

"You can't win me around with shiny things," Spencer says, but he's smiling too, because he's somehow got both his best friends back for the price of one, and even if he's pretty sure things are going to start falling apart again any second, for the moment he doesn't care a bit.

 

Brendon calls the next morning to say he's taking Ryan back to his own place.

"He's not staying with you?" Spencer asks. He tucks his phone under his ear as he sorts through the mail.

"Don't think that's a good idea," Brendon says. "We didn't really stay together in London either, not all the time."

"Doesn't sound like the best basis for a relationship," Spencer says cautiously. He's trying to be supportive, but he also doesn't think he can deal with the fallout if they implode again. Once was enough.

"It's not like he's going to be on a different continent," Brendon points out. "Surfing Friday? I missed it."

"Sure," Spencer says, because it will be much easier to get Brendon to talk face to face. He's a master at avoiding things he doesn't want to discuss, but Spencer knows how to get around that, and this thing is kind of huge. So he just says "Are you sure, Brendon?"

"Hey." Brendon's voice is soft over the phone line. "I'm an adult, and so is Ryan. You don't need to look after us. We can make our own choices." It sounds reasonable, rather than defiant, and Spencer realises that's kind of new too.

"I just worry," he says awkwardly.

"I know," Brendon says. "It’s why we love you."

"Yeah, yeah." Spencer smiles even though he knows Brendon can't see it. "I'll see you Friday, want me to pick you up?" His car's bigger, and it still has the racks on the roof.

"Sure," Brendon says. "I'll even buy you breakfast after."

There's a crash in the background, followed by an "ooops" in Ryan's voice, and Spencer suppresses a laugh.

"What did he fall over?" he asks.

"His own feet, by the look of it," Brendon replies. In the background, Spencer can just hear, "Fuck you, who puts a table there?"

"I better go kiss it better," Brendon says, and Spencer can hear the amusement in his voice." I'll see you Friday,"

"Yeah," Spencer agrees, "later."

He puts the junk mail straight in the recycling, and sticks the postcard from his aunt onto the fridge with one of the magnets from the dirty words poetry set. It upsets the limerick Dallon made last time they were practicing here, but whatever.

There's some updates about the gig they're playing in Athens in his inbox, and he reads it carefully, coffee in hand. They need to pick a set list, and, he supposes, they also need to make sure Dallon and Ian can make it. He knows it's something he and Brendon need to discuss, what the hell is happening with them. He was avoiding before the end of the tour. They're both cautious. Ian and Dallon work though, and now that Spencer’s gotten over the initial weirdness of looking up to see Dallon where Jon was, of hearing Ian’s kinetic playing rather than Ryan’s more laid back style, he loves it. He shelves the question of what to do until after he’s talked to Brendon, and picks up his car keys. He’s got a best friend to interrogate.

 

 

Ryan looks rumpled when he opens the door, but he smiles and hugs Spencer when he steps inside.

"Hey," he says. "I didn't forget you were coming over, did I?"

"No," Spencer says. "I just was just in the neighbourhood."

Ryan raises an eyebrow.

"I'm an hour's drive away from you," he says.

Spencer lets it go, because it's true, after all.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asks

"Oh," Ryan says, and steps back, lets Spencer follow him into the living room. "I was expecting this."

"Expecting what?" Spencer asks. There's something quiet playing in the background, mostly strings and a soft French voice.

"The whole 'hurt him and die' thing." Ryan shrugs and sits down on the sofa "Feels weird to get it from this end."

Spencer curses that still, after everything that went down, Ryan can still read his mind when he wants to. He sits next to Ryan and nudges him in the side.

"Hey," he says, "it's not just Brendon I'm worried about. Come on, dude. The last thing I knew you were barely speaking to each other."

"I'm not going to hurt him," Ryan says stubbornly. He tucks his feet up under himself, closing in and Spencer hates being the cause of that defensive body language. "It's not like it was before," he says. "I'm not going to break up the band, there's no band to break up."

"Hey, no." Spencer puts his hand out, rubs Ryan's arm until he uncurls. "It's you too, you idiot." Ryan falls fast and hard, always has done, and someone with as much history as Brendon has means all the more risk that they could shatter on each other. "I don't want you to get hurt any more than I want Brendon to be. Don't let him hurt you."

Ryan leans against him. His hair tickles Spencer's nose. "I'll try not to. I don't -- we don't really know what's going on. It could be nothing." Ryan's trying to sound offhand, but he came back from Europe, he's here, and he's _glowing_ , eyes bright, happy and settled in himself like Spencer hasn't seen for far too long. He's not foolish enough to think that's all Brendon, but he likes how it looks on Ryan.

"Ok," he says. "So, now my best-friend duties have been done, want to tell me all about Europe? I haven't seen you in months."

"Not much to tell really." Ryan shrugs, but Spencer pokes him again.

"At least tell me about London."

And Ryan kicks his feet up on the coffee table and launches into a story about how, seriously, Spencer, Belgium by yourself is pretty fucking dull, and how London is really confusing, the subway --

"Did you get lost again?" Spencer asks.

"I don't _always_ get lost," Ryan says. "You and Brendon are never going to let me live that down. See if I give you your present now."

"Present?" Spencer says.

Ryan leans over the back of the couch. He hasn't unpacked anything, by the looks of it, and he rummages around and nearly overbalances. Spencer grabs on to the waistband of his pants as Ryan flails his arms for balance.

"Here." Ryan hands him a plush raven. "We went to the Tower of London."

"I know." Spencer takes the raven. "Brendon sent me pictures."

"He said you still have Poe on your in-ears," Ryan says. "I thought you'd get a kick out of it."

"He can go on the kit next tour." Spencer laughs, but then freezes. He's always so careful talking about it to Ryan, but Ryan just nods, seriously and says:

"Why stop there? The whole concept could be birds. Brendon could wear wings on stage."

"They might get in the way of the back flips." Spencer kicks his feet up next to Ryan's.

"He'd see it as a challenge," Ryan says. "He's flexible, he could do it." He has a small, secretive smile on his face.

"Ryan," Spencer says, "you're totally thinking about that flexibility in a different context now, aren't you?"

"I hate that you can do that." Ryan ducks his head down and doesn't meet his eyes, which means yes, he was. It’s weird, thinking that Ryan knows a part of Brendon that he doesn’t. "Seriously, Spencer, do you mind?"

"It's none of my business," Spencer says. "I don't get, like, veto or anything. I just hope you guys know what you're doing. I don't want either of you to get hurt."

"Neither do I," Ryan says. He looks determined, and Spencer thinks that's as much as he's going to get for now.

It's not 'til later, when they are forking noodles out of paper containers, that Ryan adds, "I sold some songs, too. I figure Brendon will tell you anyway, but I sold three more of them while I was in Europe. One was on the radio all the time in London."

He looks proud. Relaxed about it. But Spencer's been reading Ryan for years, it's not something he'd forgotten how to do, and there's something in his voice, the studied calm of it, that means he's nervous.

"I used a different name," Ryan continues. "I figured it would give them more of a chance if they didn't have me associated with them."

"Ryan." Spencer doesn't know what to say. Ryan's always been so careful with his songs. "You should have told me," he says, because now he's curious. "I'd have called up and requested it on the radio. Done a funny voice."

Ryan laughs.

"I wasn't sure I still could," he says softly.

"Ryan," Spencer says again. "Shit, just because they're not songs for me to play doesn't mean I wouldn't be interested." He puts the take out container down and shifts so he can see Ryan properly.

"Brendon, the band, that's, like, a distinct thing," he says, trying to find the right words. "I mean, yes, thing were shit, but I thought we were past that. I'm sorry."

"What for?" Ryan asks. He has his fork poised in mid air, noodles in danger of dropping off the end.

"For..." Spencer shrugs. "Not making it clear. For not being as good a friend as I thought I was. I mean, both you and Brendon fucked off and left me behind without even telling me, so clearly I must be doing something wrong."

He's not angry at Ryan. He's not even really angry at _Brendon_ , though he thinks he has more right to be. He's just frustrated and kind of sad.

"Hey, no." Ryan finally puts his food down before the noodles splat all over the carpet. "Spencer. Shit. I was _actually_ working, for the most part, and whatever reason Brendon had for taking off, I know it wasn't you. And, you know, you know you're still my best friend. Always." Ryan works a bony arm round him and they're hugging again. Spencer's not used to being the one _getting_ comfort, but Ryan squeezes him tight and doesn't let go.

 

The waves the next morning aren't great, but it's still fun to be out there with Brendon, to smell the familiar combination of salt and seaweed, feel the pleasant pull and ache in his muscles as they trudge back up the beach. He surfs by himself as well, but this is always something he associates with Brendon, and it's good to have him back there. It feels longer than the month it's been since they did this.

Brendon peels the top half of his wetsuit down as they get to the car and grabs a towel to squeeze the water out of his hair. He has a series of oval bruises on his hips, and Spencer can't help the eyebrow raise when he realises what they must be from.

Brendon wipes the saltwater out of his eyes and asks, "You ok with this, Spencer? With me and Ryan?"

"It's not really my business," Spencer repeats. "If you're sure, then --"

"I won't hurt him," Brendon interrupts, and he puts his hand on Spencer's shoulder. Spencer can feel it, warm through the neoprene in the chill of the morning. "I promise. Or, at least, I won't _try_ to hurt him. It just feels like this is right, this time."

Spencer pushes his hair out of his face. It's getting long, he should probably get it cut before the show, but he kind of likes it. "I thought if it was ever going to happen, it would have when we were kids. You didn't see the way you looked at him."

Brendon opens his mouth but then closes it, like he's thought better of what he was going to say. Spencer ignores it in favour of quickly skinning out of his own suit and into his clothes. He rubs a towel through his own hair and shakes the water out of his ears.

"Come on," he says, strapping his board to the roof bars. "You promised me breakfast."

"I did." Brendon grins. "Usual place? I was dreaming about their omelets in London. I lived on pastries for breakfast, man, I need some protein in my diet."

"Thought you were getting plenty of that." Spencer smirks and Brendon chokes on the water he's drinking, but he's smiling too.

They get caught in traffic on the way to the diner, and Brendon starts humming something under his breath, tapping a counterpoint out on his knee. It's complex, catchy, but it's not something Spencer recognises.

"That's great," he says, inching forward in the traffic. He's beginning to suspect they should just head home. The saltwater has dried itchy on his skin and he wants a shower, but he's also starving. "Where's it from?"

"Something I was working on in London," Brendon says. "I recorded it on my phone, but it really needs the drums, because I'm thinking this whole counterpoint thing, like, one rhythm for the melody, sort of mechanical, and then the drums are sort of going in and out and around?" He hums the line again, and Spencer can already hear what he means.

"We could go and work on it at mine after breakfast," he offers. "Maybe start thinking about the next album?"

"Sounds good." Brendon grins, and he hums all the way to the diner, Spencer already feeling the rhythms settle into his bones.

Brendon gets his omelet, and they split a side of hash browns, and Spencer laughs himself sick over Brendon's description of an abortive attempt to see some of the English countryside.

"-- seriously, I thought they were going to kill us and eat us, it was like something out of a Western or some shit --"

"And let me guess," Spencer says, "Ryan totally vetoed the butterfly farm?"

"It's weird how well you know each other." Brendon nods and eats the last bite of his omelet.

"You know me pretty well too," Spencer says, holding out his water glass as Brendon tops it up.

"Lucky me," Brendon says, and grins to show he means it. Like Spencer had any doubt.

They kick around with the new song for most of the rest of the day, Brendon strumming out the melody on the guitar, leaving space for Spencer to thread a line through it, crisp and shifting, like the clank of gears and the roar of engines.

"It sounds like the subway," Brendon says as Spencer taps out the motif again on the rim of one of the toms. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

Spencer smiles, pleased. He loves how in tune they are when they're like this, how they each have the freedom play off each other and try something new. It's how he knows all the shit that went down was worth it.

"We should get Ian and Dallon out here," he says, tentatively. They have to talk about it and now seems the best time. "See what they come up with? We have that Athens show. We should practice."

"Sounds good," Brendon says, "but maybe in a couple weeks? Let us get this down first. We still need lyrics."

"They'll come," Spencer says, because the words always come last, for both of them. It's not something that comes as easily to either of them, even now. "Or, maybe --"

"Hey." Brendon's suddenly close, guitar slung at his back. "Hey, I didn't bring Ryan back for that, you know that, right? Shit, we wouldn't last ten seconds. The band is still us, right?" He leans over the toms and looks earnestly at Spencer, the big, wide-eyed look that should be ridiculous but somehow never is.

Spencer rests his sticks on the snare and reaches up to knock his fist gently against Brendon's arm.

"I _know_ that," he says. "Of course I do." It's something he knows so completely that the thought Ryan might write for them never really crossed his mind. He knows he gets that bit of Brendon, and the warm satisfaction he gets from that is maybe something he doesn’t want to examine too much.

"I was going to say," he says, "that maybe we could work on the lyrics with Dallon when he gets here."

"Oh -- yes," Brendon says, and he pats Spencer's fist absentmindedly. "We totally should."

"Could be something for the new album," Spencer says, "and kind of a way of making them feel involved."

"About that," Brendon says, and his expression is serious. "Do you want, I don't know, do you want to get papers drawn up or something?"

Spencer hesitates. They are pretty much members of the band in everything but legal name, but he remembers how things went down before, the whole legal tangle with Jon and Ryan, and it's even more complicated now, even though Ryan's the one putting a spring in Brendon's step, even though he feels his own pieces snapping back into place with Ryan there.

"How about, if something does come of this song, we work out the rights for that one?" he says. "Take it a bit at a time?"

"That works," Brendon says, nodding. He picks out a fragment of song, just something to do with his hands. "I just don't want to feel like they're locked in if something happens or if they want to do something else. I mean, you know Ian. How many bands is he in now?"

"Right." Spencer nods, and laughs. Ian's band-hopping is a standing joke, but he always insists there's more than enough of him to go around.

"Not you though," Brendon says. "You're locked in. You're stuck with me."

"Like I’d have it any other way," Spencer says, and means every word.

 

 

Brendon wants to do something different with this show, pull out some of the old stuff, try different arrangements. Spencer lobbies for "There’s a Good Reason," because he's always liked the drum part, and he can make it even more of a challenge now. Brendon grouses and fusses over the words but gives in, as Spencer knew he would. They pick "Pas de Cheval" to rework when Ian gets in, because Brendon thinks it could be a riot onstage.

"We should do some of the stuff that didn't make it onto the album," Brendon suggests a few days later. "People would get a kick out of it."

"Sure," Spencer says, just as the doorbell rings. He gets up to answer it, and is a little surprised to see Ryan at the door, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the light rain.

"Hi," he says, as Spencer steps back to let him in. "I was supposed to be meeting Brendon for lunch, but he's not at his place, so I thought I'd see if you wanted lunch instead?"

"He's actually here," Spencer says. "Is he standing you up already?"

"Well, we didn't really say what time lunch was," Ryan replies. He hangs his coat off one of the hooks near the door and stuffs his gloves into the pocket.

"We're actually rehearsing," Spencer says. "We won't be long. You could watch TV, or make a sandwich or something?"

"I could -- could I watch?" Ryan asks, tentatively. That surprises Spencer; it's not something he thought Ryan would ever even _want_.

"Sure," he says, because it's not like he minds. Ryan was there the very first time he ever picked up a set of sticks.

He pushes the door of the rehearsal room open. Brendon's leaned the guitar against the walls and is running over the keys part of "Tables," flexing his fingers as he hits the syncopated sections.

"It's for you," Spencer says. "Fail at remembering your own dates, Brendon."

"Oh, hey." Brendon looks up and a smile breaks across his face. "It's lunch time already?" He tilts his head up as Ryan pecks him on the lips, a short hello of a kiss.

Spencer's still not sure where to look, but he tells himself he wouldn't freak out if it was any other person kissing either of his best friends, so he forces himself to be cool. He just can't shake the slight fear that he might somehow get left behind, despite all of Brendon's reassurances.

"Spencer said it was ok for me to watch," Ryan says, "then we could all go and get lunch somewhere?"

"Sure." Brendon smiles. "We've just a couple more to do."

Ryan folds his long legs up under him and sits on the floor, leaning against the wall. He looks at Spencer, raises his eyebrows in a question. Spencer nods back -- _It's ok. don't be stupid_ \-- and counts them in for "Ready to Go."

Ryan's tapping his foot along by the end, and bobbing his head along with the oh-oh-ohs. Brendon's playing up for their audience of one, bouncing around and doing as much of the dance as he can while still playing the guitar. Ryan rolls his eyes, but Spencer knows him well enough to spot the affection behind it.

"Opener?" he asks afterward.

"Why mess with what works?" Spencer nods.

"I want try 'Bittersweet' next," Brendon says, "and you're fucking singing it this time."

"You have two other people to sing it," Spencer argues. "Let me do what I'm good at.

Brendon just points at him and says, "Come on, you know you want to."

Spencer sticks his tongue out at him and Ryan laughs.

"Now I want to hear it too," he says.

Brendon says, "Outnumbered. Your doo-doo-doos are mine, Smith."

"Fine," Spencer says and taps out the stick fill for the beginning of the song.

It's a song he likes, and he's getting into it, singing out the backing, Brendon tapping his foot instead of clicking his fingers. When Brendon gets to the lyric about bathroom stalls, he sings it directly at Ryan, and Ryan suddenly _beams_ , that rare, beautiful smile that Spencer spent years learning to tease out of him. Spencer's breath catches, and he fumbles the sticks for a second before he catches himself and gets back on track.

Weird.

Brendon finishes with a final wail, and slips the strap of the guitar over his head, leans it against the wall.

"You did that on purpose," Ryan says to him, as Brendon gives him a hand up.

"Couldn't resist," Brendon says softly. He hasn't let go of Ryan's hand and again Spencer feels like he's intruding.

"If you're ever in a position to eat food from a kebab van, don't." Ryan looks over Brendon's shoulder at Spencer. "Food poisoning in England is no fun at all. They don't have Gatorade."

"Why the hell were you eating from any kind of van?" Spencer asks, confused.

"It was the only thing that was open," Ryan says. "And let's not talk about it anymore. I want to eat lunch, not throw it up."

"Ok," Spencer says. "I guess I'll see you both later?"

"Come with us," Ryan says, at the same time that Brendon says, "It's just lunch, you're not like the third wheel or anything."

They're still holding hands, and Ryan reaches out and loops his fingers around Spencer's wrist, tugs.

"Come on," he says, "I drove all the way here. Least you can do is have lunch with us."

"I have stuff for lunch, if you want to stay," Spencer offers.

"Sandwiches?" Brendon asks, perking up

"You know it," Spencer says, and Brendon's almost out of the room before he finishes the sentence.

"Good to know where we stand in relation to sandwiches." Ryan smiles, inviting Spencer to share the joke.

"Thrown over for pulled pork," Spencer agrees, and Ryan doesn't let his wrist go as they walk to the kitchen to find every single jar of condiment Spencer owns already spread out on the counter and Brendon shaking his ass to the radio as he saws away at a loaf of bread.

Brendon makes truly epic sandwiches, so Spencer leaves him to it and sits at the breakfast bar with Ryan and watches Brendon work.

"For you." Brendon puts the sandwich in front of Ryan and pecks his cheek. "And for you..." He slides a plate in front of Spencer.

"Don't I get a kiss?" Spencer says. It's nothing he wouldn't have said before, but he regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. It's hard to adapt and he knows Ryan gets jealous. He'd hate for Ryan to be jealous of _him_.

"Later." Brendon winks, but he kisses the top of Spencer's head before picking up his own sandwich.

"I bought some spare clothes, Brendon," Ryan says, after they've all had a few minutes of silent appreciation for Brendon's sandwich-making skills. "There's no point going back home if we're going out tonight; I thought I could stay for the weekend."

"Sounds good." Brendon leans into him. "Hey, do you want to meet Ian and Dallon while they're here?"

Spencer thinks he shouldn't be here for this conversation. They've not spoken about what Brendon's going to tell anyone, but it's not really in his nature to hide.

"You haven't told them anything?" Ryan asks, slowly.

"I wanted to run it by you and Spencer first, but I'm going to have to tell them something. Pete, too, I guess. Just in case."

"It's nothing to do with me," Spencer says. He doesn't think any of them will take it _badly_ , but if Brendon's thinking about Pete, about the label, it must be pretty serious. And Spencer's not sure how he feels about that.

"Of course it is," Brendon says. "It affects the band, so you're part of it."

"You'll get all the questions about it," Ryan says. He has a smear of mayonnaise on his cheek. Spencer reaches over and wipes it off.

"Thanks," Ryan says absently.

"I guess, whatever you do, just let me know before you do it?" he says. "So I can be prepared."

"We can do that." Brendon nods. "I'll call Pete -- unless you want to, Ryan?"

"Not sure I'm his favourite person anymore." Ryan frowns at his sandwich. "Mayonnaise is different here. Do you know they put it on fries in Belgium?"

Brendon looks at him. "Sometimes I don't know why we're still friends," he says, and Spencer kicks his ankle under the table and steals the last of his chips while he's complaining to Ryan.

"Serves you right," Ryan says, and leans over to take the chip Spencer holds out -- and for a moment, it feels like nothing's changed at all.

 

 

Brendon and Ryan aren't obnoxiously couple-y. They're tactile, sit pressed tight together, hand on knee or shoulder, legs in laps, but, Spencer realises, they were kind of like that before. Brendon touches as a way of talking, and once Ryan's let you in past the defences (fewer, now, than when they were growing up, and Spencer's so grateful for that, for everything that went into it, even for Jon), he draws you in with long arms and legs, taking up so much space it's impossible to sit apart. So there's not really that much difference, which, Spencer thinks, should have been a hint, even if the way Ryan sometimes looked at Brendon with stars in his eyes wasn't.

And because it's not that different, once he's gotten over the initial shock, and the warm contentedness that came with getting Ryan back, as well as Brendon, he doesn't really think too much about it. He really doesn't. He's happy for them both, and selfishly pleased that they can all be friends again. Because he's never regretted choosing Brendon, his talent and fire, but Ryan knew nearly everything about him, and he's missed having the connection and not feeling guilty about it.

One of the first things he did when he bought his place was give Brendon a spare set of keys and an open invitation. Brendon's apartment block is nice, but they frown on late night guitar solos. Spencer's spare room is soundproofed,, and soon became their de facto practice space. And he likes knowing Brendon can come by whenever he wants. They're maybe a little co-dependent, he thinks, but if Brendon (and Ryan) aren't complaining, then he isn't either.

So it isn't really unusual for him to come home from a run and find Brendon's coat hanging over the stair rail. He doesn't, however, usually come home to find Brendon and Ryan making out on his couch.

They're both fully clothed, but they are completely wrapped up in each other. Spencer can't look away from the tangle of limbs and dark hair, Ryan's long legs hooked around Brendon's hips, Brendon's small, strong hands clutching at Ryan's shoulders. They're kissing slowly, sipping at each other's mouths. Brendon's long lashes are dark fans on his cheeks, and Spencer can hear small, wet noises as their mouths meet.

He's hit with a sudden wave of jealousy, unexpected, unwelcome. He doesn't even know who he's jealous _of_. Ryan, kissing Brendon's soft, soft mouth, or Brendon, with Ryan covering him like a blanket, pouring all that focus into Brendon. Spencer creeps away, praying they didn't notice, and slips upstairs to have a quick, cold shower. He towels his hair and sits in the kitchen feeling like the worst person in the world. It's a good ten minutes before Ryan pads in, looking for him.

"I thought I heard the shower," he says. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and Spencer can see his collarbones, delicate under the skin. His hair is a tangled mess, and Spencer has a sudden image of Brendon running his hands through it as they kiss.

"I was out for a run," he manages, and Brendon comes up behind Ryan, and leans his chin on his shoulder. He's barefoot, lips swollen and reddened, and -- _Shit_ , Spencer thinks as it really hits him. _Shit shit shit it's both of them_.

"Hey, Spence," Brendon says "We let ourselves in, that was ok, right?"

"Sure" Spencer says, and he's proud that his voice doesn't betray anything. "You have a key, that's what it's for."

"You're out of coffee, though," Ryan says, and he detaches himself from Brendon to open the cupboard to demonstrate.

"I know," Spencer says. He wants to reach out but he can't, it's not his to reach out for. For the first time, he just wants them to _go_. "I was going to go grocery shopping today, I'm out of a lot of stuff."

"Oh, we could go now," Brendon says. "I'll get my shoes, we need food as well, Ryan ate all the Pop Tarts."

"That's because they were the only edible food in the house," Ryan says.

"I've been kind of preoccupied."

Brendon smiles at Ryan then, kiss him, and Spencer feels his heart clench.

"I'll go later," he says, and tries to look tired.

"You ok, dude?" Brendon frowns. "You don't look great."

"I'm fine," Spencer lies. "I think I might have pulled something on my run. I'm going to put my feet up for a bit."

"Ok," Brendon says. "Dinner tomorrow at mine? We're going to watch both _Tron_ s. Olivia Wilde?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Sure," Spencer says. "Wouldn't miss it."

Ryan hugs him goodbye as Brendon's toeing his sneakers back on

"You sure you're ok?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, Ryan, I'm fine. Just, you know, need to stretch more before running."

"See you tomorrow," Ryan says as Brendon hands him his coat.

"You need me to bring anything?" Spencer asks.

"Only your fine self." Brendon grins, and Spencer forces an eye roll.

He waves Brendon and Ryan off (both in Brendon's car, which means Ryan stayed at his last night, and they both came to Spencer's -- to what, make out on his couch?) and goes and sits back in the kitchen. He drinks two glasses of juice, but the hot knot of guilt in his stomach doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

"Shit," Spencer says to the empty room. It shouldn't be a surprise, he realises. He just has the worst timing in the world, but it's not like the feelings are new, even if the intensity is. It's always been a kind of buzz at the back of his head. When he says 'best friend,' it's because that's the only way he can think of Ryan, even though, he realises, even before the band, before Brendon, before even Brent, that what other people mean when they say best friend has hardly ever scratched the surface of him and Ryan. And Brendon, _Brendon_. Everyone falls a bit in love with him, Spencer thinks, and he's been falling bit by tiny bit since he first looked up from the kit and saw him. And he's had years of being there right behind him, sharing his belief and warmth and talent, years of partnership in almost every way -- except the way Brendon has with Ryan.

"You're an asshole," he tells himself sternly. "A greedy, selfish asshole." He has both of his best friends back, they have each other, and they are both so happy. Brendon's solid, grounded in a way he's rarely seen, and Ryan's relaxed, expansive, glowing. He can't begrudge either of them that.

He just has no idea what to do, or even who to talk to. The first two people on his list are kind of disqualified by _being_ the problem.

He throws himself into paperwork instead. He has to sort his taxes out every year, and today is as good a time as any to start getting things in order. He sits on the sofa and spreads receipts and contracts and invoices all round him, Brendon's as well as his own, and creates neat, methodical lists. He tries to ignore how the cushions smell a little like Brendon, a little like Ryan, and doesn't give into the urge to bury his face in them and breathe in like that could ever be enough.

 

 

Both Brendon and Ryan kind of suck at cooking in general, but the few things Brendon _can_ cook, he's really good at. Spencer is lazy and warm and full of pasta primavera and Ryan's garlic bread. Even though Brendon owns two big recliners, they're all squashed onto the couch, Brendon's head in Ryan's lap and his feet butting up against Spencer's thighs. Spencer has to stop himself from looking at Ryan's hand in Brendon's hair. Brendon's always liked having his hair petted, something they'd found out in Maryland when he would wake from nightmares, panicky and scared. The only thing that let him sleep was Spencer playing with his hair. But now it looks so intimate, and Spencer feels bad for seeing it, feels worse for wanting it to be his fingers in Brendon's dark hair, his head in Ryan's lap.

"Are you actually watching this, Brendon?" Ryan asks, amused.

"'m totally watching," Brendon says sleepily. They've watched both _Tron_ films and moved on to _The Dark Crystal_ , because it's always been one of Spencer's favourites, even though the puppets freak Ryan out.

"You're half asleep." Spencer pokes Brendon's leg. He can do this, act normal. The whole lack of personal space with him and Brendon _is_ normal. It's just him that's making it weird.

Brendon stretches luxuriously and pokes his toes firmly into Spencer's thigh.

"I'm just watching with my eyes closed," he says.

"Sure," Ryan says. "What just happened?"

"There were puppets and you freaked out like a baby," Brendon replies. Ryan pulls on his hair, a sharp tug, and Brendon yelps and wriggles upright to sit between Ryan and Spencer.

"Not the hair," he says, and pushes his hand through it, rucking it up. "It's disappearing as it is."

"Poor thing," Spencer says, and leans against him. He can do this. He can. "I think we still have that top hat somewhere if that will make you feel better."

"But it wouldn't go with the wings," Ryan says seriously, and they both crack up as Brendon says, "What? What!"

Spencer still has the curl of sadness and guilt in his gut, but he can do this, he tells himself. It's so nearly enough, just to be here. To press himself against the smooth curve of Brendon's biceps, to fit himself around Ryan's angles once more. To be relieved that, once again, they can all be together like this. He's grateful, so grateful, for what he's got, and if he has to turn away when Ryan and Brendon kiss goodnight, well, that's a small price to pay.

 

 

Spencer's glad Ian and Dallon are coming out to rehearse for the show. It gives him something else to think about, getting the guest rooms straightened out (which basically means insisting Brendon take all his crap home), making sure there are enough cables and extension leads for the amps. He can push down the tangle of want and longing until it's small and insignificant, concentrate on what they're going to play and how.

A few days before they land, Spencer drives out to see Ryan. He's pretty sure he's going to make himself scarce while they practice, but Spencer's gotten used to seeing him all the time again, and he wants to check he's ok. Brendon has tight lines around his eyes today, worry lines, and Spencer thinks they've been arguing. Brendon won't talk about it, but Spencer knows that Ryan will, if he catches it right.

"I'm in the yard," Ryan says when he opens the door. He has his camel coat on, fine fawn wool down to his knees, and a scarf wound round his neck. It's not freezing, but it's definitely damp, fall in full force.

"Why are you outside?" Spencer asks as he follows him out to the back yard. His hair is rucked over the collar of his coat, the curls getting really long now. Spencer wants to smooth them down.

"I thought a change of scene might help," Ryan says. There's a couple of loungers grouped round the fire pit, the logs burning bright even in the afternoon sun. Ryan shifts a notebook and pen and sits down. "I'm trying to work on something, but it's not really happening. I was just watching the fire in the end."

"What are you working on?" Spencer asks. Ryan hesitates, but gestures to the book with one gloved hand.

"Lyrics," he says "I have all these words still in my head, and no one to sing them with."

It's as close as they've gotten to talking about Ryan's band, or lack of it. Spencer knows he's seen Alex, but he's also seen the Phantom Planet dates announced, so if he is making music, it's not with Ryan."

"I'm sorry about your band," Spencer says instead. He squashes onto the lounger. It's wide and Ryan's skinny, and Spencer's not above stealing body heat. The fire is more decorative than useful.

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Me too. I don't have much luck, it seems."

"You could go solo," Spencer says. "If you wanted,"

"Maybe." Ryan shrugs. "I'm still writing. Maybe I'll write something for myself."

"I'm glad you're still writing," Spencer says. "It's fucking hard."

Ryan laughs and leans against him. "You say that now?"

"Well, before I had you for the lyrics," Spencer says. "It's hard from this end, you know? It takes us longer."

He knows it's a risk, talking like this, but he's seen Ryan's face when Brendon sings the new songs, a mix of pride and something that isn't quite hurt, so he thinks he'll try it.

"I thought it was Brendon that wrote the songs," Ryan says. He's warm against the chill of the day and he picks up Spencer's hand absently, rubbing it between his gloved palms.

"Mostly it was," Spencer says, "but I helped. You probably don't want to hear it --"

"I do," Ryan says. "Shit, Spencer. Of course I do. it's ok. It's not like I didn't _know_ you were moving on. We both have albums that show that. I really am fine with you and Brendon and the band. I still miss it, though."

"Miss playing with us?" Spencer asks. He won't go back to that, he tells himself. It would be a disaster, but he's still not sure what Ryan means.

"Having someone to sing my songs." Ryan shrugs. "Someone I know. I don't like them just belonging to anyone."

Spencer shifts closer and gives Ryan his other hand. Ryan's fingers are longer than his, palms broad as he chafes, rubbing warmth into him.

"But you sold songs," Spencer says. Brendon had shown him the video for one. It was so unmistakably Ryan Spencer doesn't know how the different name fooled anyone. But, he supposes, not everyone pays as close attention as he does.

"Just ones that didn't mean much," Ryan says, "ones I didn't mind someone not getting right."

"I think," Spencer says, slowly, looking at the way the firelight glances of Ryan's face. The day’s fading toward twilight. "I think that giving it to someone else doesn't mean it's not yours anymore as well. You can write it all down and let it go. It's still something of you, but it's someone else's too. You don't have to keep it all close to you. Sometimes letting it go is the right thing to do."

Ryan makes a considering noise. They're just holding hands now, which is kind of torture for Spencer. The easy way Ryan is with him again is harder now that he realises that he doesn't just want to _hold hands_.

"You can put it all out there," Spencer says. "I mean, you must have wanted to, to go to all that trouble of selling the ones you did?"

"They were in my head," Ryan says. "I just needed to get them out."

"I think you should just carry on doing that," Spencer says, "but stop hiding. No one's going to care once they read your lyrics."

Ryan squeezes his hand. "Remember the first time I showed you my poems?" he asks. The fire crackles, dying down.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "You had them in that exercise book, with half of your geography assignment written round them."

Ryan had been 14, skittish and sad, the phrases written so firmly into the page the ballpoint had torn the paper in places.

"You read them so carefully," Ryan says. "Anyone else would have laughed."

"No, they wouldn't," Spencer says firmly. "Not even then."

"We'll agree to disagree," Ryan says. "And then you said, they should be songs. You said, 'Ry, these are _as good as_ what Mark Hoppus writes'."

Spencer bursts out laughing. "I did, didn't I?" he says. "And you kept writing."

"That was where it started," Ryan says.

"And then we ended up touring with Mark Hoppus," Spencer says. "Well, I did. Kind of a wild journey."

"I'm glad you were with me for most of it," Ryan says. "I never did say thank you."

"We don't need to," Spencer says. "We never did."

"Yeah," Ryan says, and leans against him and watches the fire.

 

Spencer's doing some last minute tune ups on his kit, tightening the skins and checking the pedals, all ready for tomorrow, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out.

"Dude," he says, "I just saw you two hours ago, you miss me already?"

"Always," Brendon says. "We're on our way over, we're going to dinner."

"We?" Spencer asks, though it's not like he has to. He honestly doesn't know whether Ryan sleeps at his own place more than one day a week.

"Ryan, tell him what you did," Brendon says, and his voice is so proud it makes something in Spencer's stomach twist. There's a fumbling sound, someone almost dropping the phone, and then Ryan's deep voice.

"I called Pete," he says. "Said, I had all these songs. Did he know anyone who might need some?"

"That's great," Spencer says. He makes a mental note to call Pete himself, but it makes sense that Ryan would talk to him. Even after everything, he's probably the most connected person any of them know. If anyone would know baby bands in need of songs, it would be Pete. "That's really great."

"Tell him the rest." Brendon's voice is faint in the background.

"They'll be Ryan Ross songs," Ryan says. "No pen name. People can think whatever they want."

"They'll think they're great," Spencer says, the words thick in his throat.

"Is he saying people will like them?" Brendon yells. He always does this, it's like he doesn't remember speakerphone exists.

"Yes." Ryan's voice is quieter, like he's turned away from the phone.

"Told you!" Brendon shouts. "Tell him we'll be there in 30 minutes and he better look pretty."

Spencer wants to say no, that they should celebrate without him like they are clearly already doing, but Ryan says, "You heard him," and hangs up before Spencer can protest.

He has no idea where they are going that they need to look "pretty" (something Brendon and Ryan manage by breathing, he thinks) but he switches his T-shirt for a black button down and puts on the new shoes that were his present from Brendon. He actually fucking loves them, the smooth pearl grey leather, the pointed toes and neat stitching, and he spends a few minutes admiring his own feet until Brendon honks the horn outside and he grabs his jacket on the way out to the car.

Brendon and Ryan are making out in the front of the car, Brendon twisted round and over the parking brake so he's half in Ryan's lap.

"I can go back inside if I'm interrupting," Spencer says, and half wants Brendon to say yes. He can't cope if they're going to be like this all night.

"No," Brendon says, and pulls back and rubbing his hand over his mouth. "Sorry. Get in, we're going to The Buttery. Ryan's choice."

"Cool," Spencer says, and climbs in the back.

They're seated, waiting for their appetisers, before Ryan tells the whole story. They're in public, and not exactly inconspicuous, but Spencer can tell how proud Brendon is in every movement, every soft touch to Ryan's wrist as he repeats what Pete said, every small shift closer throughout the meal, how their heads tilt together. He's so proud of Ryan he can feel it like a physical weight, but it's tinged with sadness because he doesn't have the right to show it the same way Brendon does.

"And he said he'd basically been waiting for me to get my head out of my ass and get in touch," Ryan finishes up. He curls his hand round Brendon's wrist to move it firmly away from where Brendon is attempting to steal the last of his gnocchi and holds on loosely for a few seconds until the server comes by. They all drink a little too much and laugh a little too loud, and Spencer almost manages to forget he should be sad.

"So do I get to hear any of these songs?" Spencer asks, eventually.

"I could play you some, if you want," Ryan says, "after dinner. You want to split a dessert?"

"Aren't you having any?" Spencer asks Brendon. "They have ice cream."

"Three spoons," Brendon decides. "We can all share."

If only, Spencer wishes as the dessert is set down, it was as easy as that.

Ryan's had the least to drink, so he drives home, Brendon slouched in the back against Spencer. Spencer shifts so they can sit together more comfortably, and taps his fingers on his thigh when Brendon starts singing along to the radio. Brendon's warm and smells great and is so obviously in love with Ryan that Spencer wants to be anywhere but here.

"Come back to mine," Brendon says. "Ryan can play us his song like he said."

"I should go home," Spencer tries. "I have to pick the guys up at the airport tomorrow."

"So stay at mine and go straight from there, it's closer," Brendon wheedles. "Come on, Spence."

"Ok," Spencer says, because he's kind of lost the habit of saying no to Brendon somewhere along the way, and he rests his head against Brendon's as Ryan takes a corner a bit too sharply and they jolt together.

"Why did I let you drive?" Brendon calls to the front of the car.

"Because I'm older and more talented," Ryan shoots back. "Stop complaining, we're nearly there."

Brendon pulls more beers out of the fridge and they clink the necks together as he says, "To more new songs,"

"From all of us," Ryan adds, and Brendon's smile is so proud Spencer has to drink so he doesn't say something he'll regret. Like "I love you."

"So, let's hear one of these songs," he says instead. "You did promise."

"I did," Ryan says. "My guitar's in the den."

"You're leaving it here?" Spencer asks, because Ryan's funny about his instruments.

"It's not like I don't have more than one," Ryan points out.

"Come on, then," Brendon says, and throws himself onto the couch, pulls Spencer down next to him. He's warm and snuggly like he always gets when he's drink, and Spencer tucks himself next to his side like he knows Brendon wants. "Entertain us."

Ryan raises an eyebrow, as if to say, 'I entertain you plenty', but he picks up the guitar, the big acoustic Gibson he'd had at the airport, and strums it, ear close to the strings. His hair falls across his face in a shiny curtain as he twists the tuning pegs.

"Ok," he says, "this is a newer one. It -- in my head it has a Hammond organ, something like Brian Augar, you know?"

Spence doesn't but Brendon nods.

Ryan picks out the introduction, fast paced, his long fingers sure on the strings, and starts to sing. It's funny, the kind of wry humour that's particularly _Ryan_ , that you'd need to listen to times over to actually get. It seems to be about birds, from what Spencer can work out. Pigeons and crows, calling starlings, and a refrain about running away from geese, until the narrator finds someone willing to go up against them for him.

It's nothing at all that Spencer would want to play. There's no room in the intricate lyrics and melody for the kind of percussion he loves. But he still likes it, and claps at the end with Brendon. Ryan rewards them both a small smile.

"Birds?" Spencer says, as Ryan puts the guitar flat on his lap. "It's not really about birds, right?"

"It's about whatever the singer wants it to be about," Ryan says. "I know what it's about when I sing it." He leans the guitar against the wall and sits on the arm of the couch.

"Yeah," Brendon says softly, "I do, too."

"Good," Ryan says, and leans down to kiss him, hands framing Brendon's face.

"I should go," Spencer says after a few seconds, when it becomes clear Brendon isn't going to pull away any time soon.

"No," Ryan says, "Spence, come on. Stay."

He crawls over Brendon's lap, all awkward legs and elbows, and wedges himself onto the small couch next to him.

"We don't mean to make you feel like the third wheel," Brendon says. "I'll keep my hands to myself, honest. You want to play some Xbox?"

"I don't think I'm sober enough to beat you as you deserve," Spencer says.

"Movie?" Ryan asks "I bought _Ghostbusters_ over?"

It's a low blow, because both Ryan and Brendon knows how much he loves that film. He and Ryan had been half of the team one Hallowe'en, with a twin each as Slimer.

"You're not going to recite the words, are you?" Brendon asks as he gets up to put the DVD in.

"No promises," Spencer says.

"This calls for more beer." Brendon gets up and stretches, hands out behind him, his back an elegant curve.

"Bring chips too!" Ryan yells after him. "And those chocolate things from the airport!"

"Like there's any of those left after last night," Brendon calls back.

"Oh _really_ ,” Spencer says, nudging Ryan.

"They taste really fucking good and it's not what you think," Ryan says. He's not blushing, because Ryan doesn't, often, but he bites his lip and Spencer just raises his eyebrows, _sure_ , as Brendon vaults over the back of the sofa, bag of chips between his teeth and three more bottles of fancy imported beer in each hand, the necks sticking up between his fingers.

"Six bottles?" Spencer asks.

"Saves moving again," Brendon points out, and he wriggles round until he’s sandwiched between Ryan and the arm of the couch. It pushes Ryan up even closer to Spencer. This close, Spencer can see the glints of copper in Ryan's dark curls, the small stud in his ear that Spencer doesn't recognise.

Spencer settles back into the couch cushions as the credits roll, and soon enough he's mouthing the words along with Ray and Egon and Peter and Winston, Ryan a second behind him. He laughs in the same places he always laughs, and by the time the team finds Slimer in the library, Ryan's head is on his shoulder, and Spencer presses his cheek to the top of his head. He looks, hesitantly, at Brendon, but Brendon just beams at them both, that brilliant smile that shows his dimples, generous mouth stretched wide, and joins in with Ray's excited speech about ectoplasm, threading his fingers through Ryan's fingers and holding on.

The lamps are low, and the flickering TV paints coloured shadows over their faces, and Spencer's warm, content, and maybe a little drunk. Brendon gets up to put the second movie on, and curls into Ryan's side, like Ryan's curled into Spencer's, easy and comfortable, warm and sleepy. And, no matter how much it hurts that he can't have either of them the way he wants, Spencer can't regret having Ryan back in his life like this, or how happy he makes Brendon. Can't do anything other than be grateful that, eventually, they all found their way back here, reciting the words along to an old favourite, and arguing over whose turn it is to get the next bag of chips.

By the time Brendon's humming along with the _Ghostbusters'_ theme as the end credits roll, Spencer's eyes are closing, and Ryan's almost certainly asleep, if the little snuffling noises he's making into Spencer's shoulder are anything to go by.

"Hey," he says, sliding out from underneath Ryan and guiding him back down onto the couch so he doesn't hit his head. "I'm going to crash, B. Same room?"

He doesn't even really know why he's asking. Brendon only has one guest room. He just wants to make sure that he's still good to stay over.

"Sure," Brendon says. He slithers to his feet and bends to tug Ryan's shoes, pointy-toed chelsea boots, off. His hands are gentle on Ryan's ankles, and Ryan barely stirs. "'night, Spence."

He looks up then, smiling, and Spencer puts out a hand to touch his wrist, slides his fingers, so much longer than Brendon's own, round it.

"Hey," he says, "thank you. For everything. For Ryan." It's not coming out right, Spencer thinks, and has to trust that Brendon knows that he means 'Thanks for not leaving me out.'

Brendon looks soft, wistful almost, and he pulls Spencer into a tight hug as he says, "You're welcome."

They stand there for a while, Brendon's face tucked into the crook of Spencer's neck. Spencer's had a lot to drink by this time, and it must be that, he thinks, that has him feeling the wet brush of Brendon's mouth against his neck.

 

 

Having Ian and Dallon back is great, Spencer thinks, even if Ryan does make himself scarce for a few days.

"His suggestion," Brendon says the next morning as they wait in arrivals, scanning the crowds. "I was cool with it, but I guess it's better? Just in case."

"Yeah," Spencer says. Ryan says he's ok, and Spencer believes him, but there's a difference between saying it, and actually seeing someone in the place that used to be yours. He still remembers his reaction at seeing Nick behind the kit at a Young Veins show, and that had only been a picture.

"I think he's going to catch up with Z," Brendon says. "Do some more writing."

"Good," Spencer says, "I'm glad."

He is, both that Ryan's writing, and that he'll have something to take his mind off this stupid thing he's managed to develop for his two best friends. Brendon's not making it easier by _looking_ at him when he thinks Spencer's not watching, all huge liquid eyes and parted lips, and Ryan kissed him goodbye on the cheek this morning, which isn't unusual but is still difficult, when he wants to turn into Ryan and press their lips together, when Ryan's lips are still wet from Brendon's.

"You can rest easy," Dallon's voice interrupts Spencer's daydream, "because the two talented members of the band are here,"

"Sure, sure." Spencer shakes his head to clear it, and hugs Dallon, stretching around the luggage and the bass slung on his back. "Where's your better half?"

"Baggage claim," Dallon says, hugging Brendon in turn. "He'll be here in a bit."

"Dallon, you asshole." Ian's kind of laden down with cases and bags and two guitars, hair squashed under a knit cap. "You could at least have _waited_."

"I wanted to see my boys," Dallon says loftily.

Spencer takes one of the guitars off Ian, who gives him a one-armed hug hello and hands off the other guitar to Brendon with a "Make yourself useful, Urie."

"Fuck you," Brendon says, laughing, "I'm both useful and decorative and you know it."

"I'm nothing without you." Ian flutters his lashes, and Spencer's so happy to have his guys back. His band, and he has Ryan too, and that surely, surely will be enough.

The first night is taken up with Chinese takeout, and Ian's _Clone Wars_ dvds he left last time --

"I was looking for those!"

\-- and catching up on all Dallon's kids' shenanigans (he almost had to cut his hair thanks to Amelie discovering bubble gum) and Ian's latest conquests. If even _half_ of Ian's stories are true, he gets laid more than anyone Spencer's ever met. More than Ryan in his high school self-destructive phase. More than Andy.

"So, what's been going on with you guys?" Dallon asks, slurping the last of his soup.

"Oh, nothing much," Brendon says. Spencer tenses, because they still haven't really discussed what to say about Ryan. "I only got back from England a few weeks ago. You know us, we're old and boring."

"Old married couple," Ian says, leaning his head back against the couch cushions. "No sense of adventure."

Spencer kicks him on principle and Ian squawks very satisfactorily. He expects Brendon to say something then, even something stupid about Spencer being the Other Woman, but Brendon's just _looking_ at him again.

Spencer's glad they're rehearsing tomorrow. He needs something to vent his frustration on.

They go through the set list the next day, shifting around the order of some of the songs, and debating what cover they should do, since Brendon likes to change it up when he can.

"We're playing in Georgia," Dallon points out, after the third go-round of suggestions that Brendon vetoes. "We should play something by a Georgia band."

Ian says, "REM," at the same time as Brendon says, "Losing My Religion," and they grin at each other. Spencer loves that they can do that.

"Sounds good to me," he says. "B, you know the words?"

"Eh, most of them." Brendon shrugs. "We'll figure it out."

"I get to play the mandolin," Ian says, "right?" He bounces a little on the balls of his feet.

"Sure," Brendon says. "You bring one with you?"

Ian just looks at him.

"Ryan's bound to have one," Brendon continues blithely, "We can borrow one if you want to practice."

Spencer grips his sticks, waiting to Brendon to actually explain that little bombshell. Both Dallon and Ian look like they want to ask questions, but Brendon just turns the knobs on his amp, looks up, and says, "Ready?" before launching into "Ready to Go" before anyone can say anything.

 

They jam and kick around different arrangements for most of the day, finding their rhythm together again, so that Brendon can raise an eyebrow at Dallon, knock his shoulder into Ian's and have them know what song he wants next. Spencer can tap out one measure, and have the rest of them joining in before the second one is halfway through. It's the part that took longest to click, moving from Ryan and Jon, who could communicate with them with the tiniest of motions, to learning a whole new language, but when they slam into "Hurricane" like one being, Brendon's voice echoing off the walls, Spencer feeling the beat reverberate up through the floor and feeding it back out into the room, all the effort seems worth it.

"It's going to be a great show," he says to Brendon that night. Dallon went to bed early because, as they love to remind him, he's an old man and needs his beauty sleep, and Ian's having some fraught and fascinating sounding conversation, mostly in whispers, on his phone.

"It's always a great show," Brendon says happily, stretching his arms high above his head so his shirt rides up. Spencer can see fading scratch marks on his abs, and wonders if Ryan finds Brendon's shiny new muscles as fascinating as he does. How Ryan's hands look on that groove of muscle on Brendon's hip.

He drags his eyes away and says, "Yes, but we're sounding pretty good, even for us," and forces a smile. Brendon must buy it, because he knuckles him on the shoulder and says, "We should play the subway song, too."

"It doesn't have any proper lyrics, and it barely has a second verse," Spencer says. "You want to show it to the guys tomorrow?"

In the corner, Ian has progressed to short, frustrated hand gestures.

"Yeah." Brendon nods. "I think I do."

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Spencer says quietly, and Brendon puts his head on Spencer’s shoulder as they watch Ian. It’s kind of like some weird interpretive dance. Ian hangs up and looks at them both.

“Everything ok?” Brendon asks, not moving his head from Spencer’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” Ian tugs at his hair and wriggles onto the couch next to Spencer. “Just ex bandmates, you know?”

“Not all of us have as many of those as you do,” Spencer says.

“I can’t help it if I’m in demand.” Ian grins. Brendon laughs, and Spencer can feel it vibrating through his ribcage, feel the gust of Brendon’s breath over his neck. He doesn’t move away.

 

 

 

 

"Hey, something new?" Dallon asks the next morning. Brendon's picking out the bridge of what, in his head, Spencer’s calling "The London Song." The title probably needs work, he thinks.

"Just something me and Spence have been kicking around," Brendon replies. "It's not finished, but if we could get it finished, I thought we could play at the show."

He says it almost offhandedly, but Spencer watches Ian and Dallon carefully, to make sure they realise what it is they're being offered. Brendon's nowhere near as protective of his stuff as Ryan is, but he's also, under everything, a lot less sure about his work.

"Do you have any more?" Ian asks, coming closer.

"Spencer's got the drum part down." Brendon nods at him and strums out the introduction, and Spencer joins in with the pattern they worked out, the shifting counterpoint to the regular chords. Brendon hums the melody, singing the odd lyric, about going on adventures and finding unexpected things round the corner.

"It's sounds a bit like robots," says Ian, after they finish.

"It's meant to sound like a machine," Spencer says, and Brendon nods in agreement.

"But robots totally work as well," he says. "I was thinking, maybe something extra in the second verse? It's a bit thin. And I suppose --" He turns to include Dallon, too. "-- more lyrics might be a good idea."

"Not that your humming isn't fantastic." Dallon nods. "But I kind of like the buried treasure angle you’ve got going."

"Yeah?" Brendon looks pleased, happy, and Spencer grins too. "Well, let's write this fucker then."

It takes most of the next two days, even with the groundwork Spencer and Brendon have done, and, as with most of the last album, the thing that takes time is the lyrics. Spencer’s so proud of Brendon sticking to it, but there isn't much he feels he can contribute, so he heads back to the practice room to play around on the new bongos he bought himself on a whim. His hands were too blistered up by the end of the last tour to even think about playing them, but he also thinks the sound would fit pretty well into the new song, if he can play them well enough.

Ian finds him about thirty minutes later.

"You know," he says when Spencer looks up to see him leaning on the door frame, "John Bonham used to play the bongos so hard he made his hands bleed."

"I'll keep that in mind," Spencer says, "blood wouldn't really fit in with the rest of the show." The palms of his hands are reddening and he thinks he should probably quit while he's ahead.

"How's it going?" he asks instead.

Ian nods. "Good, good. It's -- did something happen when Brendon was on vacation?"

Spencer hesitates. He kind of thinks Brendon's been ignoring the giant Ian and Dallon shaped elephant in the room when it comes to Ryan, but it's also not Spencer's place to say anything.

"Why?" he asks instead.

"He seems... more solid." Ian is hesitant, like he's not sure if he's allowed to say anything.

"I think he just got some shit sorted out," Spencer says, which is true, after all.

Ian nods, looking serious, and Spencer has to fight down the urge to ruffle his hair. He's only tried it once, a fond gesture, and that's when they found out that Ian _bites_.

"That's good," is Ian's response. "Hey, name that tune?"

"Why not?" Spencer rolls his shoulders, getting ready. They've been doing this ever since Ian found, much to his distress, that the rest of his new bandmates didn't have his encyclopedic knowledge of Led Zeppelin.

"From the second album, I'll give you that much," Ian says, and starts an almost lilting melody, singing softly. It takes Spencer until the third measure to remember it, and he joins in with drum part, soft like the pattering of raindrops, bursting out into the chorus, and then back to the pattering.

"You just like it for the Lord of the Rings references," Spencer says, and Ian just smiles through his curls and slams into the last verse.

"My turn," Spencer says. It's cheating really, and Ian will guess it in seconds, but he beats out the beginning of "Moby Dick," and is rewarded with a blinding smile, and the guitar part, maybe a little brasher than Jimmy Page.

They work their way through most of the second album, and then Ian throws him for a loop with "Heartbreaker," spinning it out into a whirlwind of sound that Spencer eventually just sits back and listens to.

Seriously, he is so fucking lucky with his band, to be surrounded by their talent. While he'll still defend Ryan's lyrics to the death, and likes to hear him play, he's not so besotted that he doesn't realise what they've got now. Sometimes he wonders how they manage to keep hold of Ian.

"You guys moonlighting as a cover band?" Brendon asks, coming in halfway through "Living Loving Maid." Spencer has his sleeves pushed up, hot, even though it's cool outside.

"If you're going to cover, cover the best," Ian pants without missing a chord.

"May I?" Brendon doesn't wait for a response, just slips the strap of his guitar over his neck and joins in with Dallon on "living, loving, she's just a woman."

Spencer does a couple rounds of the kit to finish and then leans back, out of breath, as Brendon claps only slightly sarcastically. Ian bows and pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, then thinks better of it and just strips out of it. He and Brendon have some kind of competitive nudity thing going on, and Spencer’s sure it’s only a matter of time before they just start off shirtless.

"While you two were busy reliving the '70s," Brendon says, "we finished the song. It even has a title.”

He jiggles from foot to foot in excitement, and Spencer says, "Let hear it, then."

The lyrics are good, telling a story, but simple, so the complex rhythms and melody shine through. They play it through twice, and at the end Brendon lets out a, "Woo! Yeah!" and kisses Dallon noisily on the mouth, then bounces across to Ian to do the same.

Spencer is not at all jealous that the kit prevents Brendon doing the same thing to him, because that would ridiculous on any number of levels. He should have known better, he thinks, because Brendon is pulling him up out of his stool and kissing him, wet and loud, on the cheek.

"You're a beautiful man, Spencer Smith," he says, "and we have a great song."

"Play it in Athens?" Spencer suggests, resisting the urge to wipe his cheek, to touch where Brendon's mouth has been.

"Yeah," Brendon says, "show everyone they're not going to have to wait so long for the next album."

"It's going to need more practice in that case," Dallon points out.

Ian nods, and Spencer beats out the introduction again as Brendon opens his mouth to sing.

 

Ryan's had a key to every house Spencer has lived in since he was nine years old, from the first one passed over by his Mom with a "Just in case you don't want to go home," to this one, slid across the table almost as an afterthought, with no expectation that it would be used. It was one thing that Spencer couldn't give up, even in the fraught, tense months after the split, the idea that Ryan might need someplace _safe_ , and that his house was be that.

It also, it seems, comes in handy when none of them can hear the doorbell because Brendon's wailing out the chorus to "Unexpected Treasure" and the soundproofing in the rehearsal room works really well.

There's a low jumble of sound as Dallon's fingers slip on the strings when the door swings open.

"You should put a bell in here," Ryan says, instead of hello. He's still in his coat, drops of water clinging to his eyelashes. "It's raining, I was getting wet."

"You have a key," Spencer reminds him.

"I know, I remembered after a bit," Ryan says. "I didn't know you would still be rehearsing."

Both Ian and Dallon are looking from Spencer to Brendon, to Ryan and back, and now, Spencer thinks, now would be the time to calmly explain the whole thing.

So, of course, what Brendon does, is swing the guitar round to his back, step forward and say, "Don't front, Ross, you just missed me," and kiss him, both hands buried in his hair. Ryan holds onto his hips.

"Hi," Brendon says, resting their foreheads together. "We can take a break. Lunch?"

"Um," Dallon says, in his dad voice, and Spencer mentally curses Brendon. "Something you want to tell us, Brendon?"

Ryan goes to take a half-step in front of Brendon, almost as if to defend him, which makes something clench inside Spencer, but Brendon just holds Ryan's hand and says, "You guys know Ryan, right? Dallon, Ian, Ryan. Ryan, Dallon and Ian. Ok, that's introductions out of the way."

"Spencer?" Ian asks, clearly giving Brendon up for the moment. "What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, letting go of Ryan's hand. "I should have said something."

"You guys are dating?" Dallon asks.

"You have a problem with that?" Ryan's chin is up, defiant.

Brendon says, "Ryan, don't be an asshole. It's my fault I didn't tell them."

"No problem," Dallon says calmly. "It just would have been nice to know, is all."

"Hey," Ian says. "Does this mean -- I'm not going, not without a fight."

Brendon looks confused for a second, and Spencer leans over the kit to poke Ian in the arm with a drumstick.

"Don't be an idiot," he says, because this wasn't something he'd even thought of. Although... Ian hadn't been there to see it all go to shit, to see Brendon and Ryan completely fail to work together. "We're totally keeping you."

"Oh, dude," Brendon says. "No, no way. Business and pleasure don't mix."

Ryan says, "I can wait upstairs if you guys need to sort shit out. I can order some takeout, if you want anything?"

"Pizza?" Brendon asks.

"I'll call them." Ryan hesitates a fraction, but kisses Brendon softly, waves to Spencer, and closes the door behind him.

"Not cool," Dallon says sternly.

"You have a problem with me dating Ryan, or boys in general?" Brendon snaps. He gets mean when someone he loves is threatened. Spencer knows this, but having it confirmed shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

"Brendon," he says, getting up. "Now who's being an asshole?" Because it's not like Brendon dating guys is news to any of them,

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, contrite. "I really was going to tell you guys today, Spencer knew, obviously. I was going to tell you and then invite Ryan over so you guys could meet him."

"I don't get it," Ian says, slowly. "I thought you guys didn't get along."

"We worked some stuff out." Brendon shrugs. "We don't work as bandmates, but we work as friends now. As more than friends. And hey..." He rubs the back of his neck. "Like I said, it's not like it's going to break up the band."

"We love you guys," Spencer adds, because it's true. "We don't want to play with anyone else."

"Those lyrics make more sense now," Dallon says, "I had no idea I was helping you write a love song."

"No, dude," Brendon starts to protest, but Dallon just raises his eyebrows.

"Its...all in the interpretation?" Brendon tries instead. "Come on, or Ryan'll pick all the pepperoni off the pizza."

It's a pretty blatant change of subject, but Dallon seems to go for it, following Brendon out of the room.

"Sorting some things out, huh?" Ian says.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "He's happy. They _both_ are. I'm not going to argue against that."

"I know," Ian says as they head into the kitchen. "You like Brendon to be happy."

"Of course he does," Brendon says, looking up from the fridge, pulling out cans of soda "You have to keep the talent happy."

Ryan chuckles "The talent? Really?" He softens it with a touch to the small of Brendon's back.

"We have a new song and it's amazing, so shut your mouth," Brendon says, leaning back into Ryan. He tosses the cans to Spencer and Ian. "It's the one I played in London, remember?"

"Well, if you need lyrics, I'm available at very reasonable rates," Ryan says. "I just hope it sounds better than the last time I heard it."

"We're all set," Brendon says, and he moves to sling an arm around Dallon's shoulders. "We've got some good stuff."

"I'm looking forward to hearing it," Ryan says, and he means it, Spencer sees. He really means it. It's a kind of weird renegotiation of their musical and personal life, but it's working, and he can't begrudge Ryan that.

The door chimes, and he darts out to get the pizza, glad of the excuse to leave the room.

 

 

Later, Spencer corners Brendon as he closes the door after saying goodbye to Ryan. It had been an awkward lunch at first, but then Dallon and Ryan had discovered a shared love of silent cinema, and spent 40 minutes discussing _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_ while the rest of them got on with eating the pizza. Spencer thinks, as first meetings go, it could have been a lot worse. It doesn’t mean that he’s not still pissed at Brendon, though.

"Not fucking cool," he says in an undertone, so Ian and Dallon, currently engaged in an epic Halo battle, can't hear. “I thought we had an agreement you would tell me first. This affects the band, you saw what Ian assumed. They'll think we're trying to replace them.”

"It's like ripping a band-aid off," Brendon says. He looks serious, and puts his hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Spence. I'm kind of in this for the long run, you know? The band _and_ Ryan. I just wanted it all into the open."

"Don't pull that shit in an interview," Spencer says. "At least tell us first." He glares to cover up the clench in his stomach. Brendon's the most determined person he knows, and if he's in it for the long term, Spencer thinks he'd better get used to this feeling.

"I promise I'll tell you all, so you don't get ambushed with stupid questions." Brendon says. "We don't have much press now anyway, and it's not like people are going to think to ask."

"Brendon!" Ian yells from the living room. "If you've finished making out with your boyfriend, you're up next for an asskicking."

Brendon smiles, and Spencer bites his tongue.

"We picked a good pair," he says.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "We did."

He has his band. It's enough.

 

 

Ryan gets Spencer to promise he'll come out to dinner with him and Brendon the night before they all fly out to Athens. Spencer would rather stay home, where Dallon and Ian are a distraction, but he can no more refuse Ryan and Brendon's identical pleading looks than he ever could, and so he's unsurprised when they all troop out of the practice space to see Ryan sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa.

The banjo is a bit of a surprise, though.

"Did you know there's a new musical instrument shop between mine and here?" Ryan says. His long hands dance on the strings as he speaks.

"Yes." Brendon sits next to him "But unlike you, I'm capable of driving past it, and don't have your weird thing for banjos."

"Shhhh," Ryan says, almost to himself. He carries on playing. Spencer recognises "Here Comes the Sun." "This one was pretty."

"Oh cool banjo," Ian says, coming up behind Spencer. "New?"

"Yes," Ryan says.

"Can I?" Ian holds out his hands. Ryan visibly hesitates, but, after a beat, hands it over.

Ian's careful with it, which Spencer's grateful for, because Ryan's weird about his instruments. He turns it over carefully, running his hands over the polished body and the long neck, then fingers the second verse of the song. His hands slip, and he makes a face, and hands it back to Ryan, who takes it gently.

"I'm out of practice," Ian says ruefully.

"Yeah, me too," Ryan says. "I like banjos, though."

"Who knows why," Brendon teases, and Ryan pokes him in the leg.

"You don't make fun of Spencer's drum collection." he says.

"He hits harder than you," Brendon says.

"He's also not going to cut you off," Ryan threatens, but there's no heat in it, and Brendon leans across to kiss him, eyes sparkling.

"The shop have a mandolin?" Dallon asks. "because, Ian, ;Losing My Religion' just doesn't sound the same on guitar."

"I didn't see one," Ryan says, "but..." He pauses, and takes a breath. "I have one? You could borrow it. If you're careful."

He's trying, and Spencer's so _proud_ of him as Ian nods. "Thanks. I'll take care of it," he says, not really realising what it is that Ryan's offering.

He catches Brendon's eye, and Brendon's beaming at Ryan, everything Spencer feels written on Brendon's face, and Spencer doesn't know how he'll survive the evening, if they are going to be like this all the time. He leaves the room to go wash up, because he can't be that obvious in front of everyone, and Ryan will see, even if Brendon doesn't.

 

 

Spencer's kind of glad that Ryan decides to watch from the side of the stage, bundled up in ridiculous sunglasses and one of Brendon's knit caps. Having him where he could be seen -- Spencer can't even think of what people would make of that, and he doesn't want it to distract from what he's pretty sure is going to be an awesome show. He’s surprised that Ryan wanted to watch at all, but when Brendon had said, half joking, “If you’re that worried about the mandolin, just come and watch so you can look after it until the last minute,” Ryan had said, “Ok, then.” Brendon had kissed him then, arm curling around Ryan’s shoulders and Spencer had turned away.

It's an odd gig to make up for one they had to cancel when both Spencer and Dallon came down with food poisoning, but the crowd is, if possible, even more excited to see them than last time.

Ryan's standing at Dallon's side of the stage and Spencer catches his eye and smiles as he counts them in for "Ready to Go." From the first few bars, Spencer can tell it's going to be amazing. Brendon's a ball of energy, strutting around the stage, flirting with the crowd, with Ian, with Dallon, turning to sing up at Spencer, flushed and gorgeous as he only gets onstage.

Brendon introduces the cover as "something from your hometown boys," and the screams as Ian picks up the mandolin and plays are almost enough to drown Brendon out. His voice is pure and clear, and Spencer sneaks a look to the side, sees Ryan's eyes shining like the very first time they heard him. Spencer bites his lip, and carries on drumming.

"You guys are too hot," Brendon says toward the end of the set. His collar is unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up and he's dripping with sweat. "We've gonna go cool down, but we've got time for a two more songs. Now this next one was written with the help of my very good friends, Mr Spencer Smith --" Spencer stands and waves. Brendon continues to Ian, who leans back against his shoulder. "-- our own shred-head, Ian Crawford --" Ian nuzzles into his neck. "-- and with lyrical assistance from this tall drink of water, Mr Dallon Weekes!" Brendon stalks across to Dallon, and kisses his cheek. "This is a brand new song, guys, and it's called 'Unexpected Treasure'!"

The crowd are still cheering as they run off stage and into the dressing rooms, and Spencer would be surprised if the new song wasn't already on YouTube by the time they made it back to the hotel. Ryan's hanging back, trying to not get in the way, and Ryan, being Ryan, is not really succeeding.

Brendon at least doesn't jump Ryan right then and there, but the looks he shoots him don't need much interpretation. Brendon calls first shower as soon as they're in the dressing room, shedding clothes as he goes. Spencer strips out of his shirt, and flexes his hands. They're blistered again, and he's glad this was just a one-off.

"You ever think about wearing gloves?" Dallon asks, as Spencer grabs the tape from his bag and rips off a piece.

"I used to ask him that, too," Ryan says softly. He takes the tape from Spencer and Spencer gives him his hand, lets Ryan's gentle fingers smooth the tape round his hand, pressing it down to get it to stick. Spencer tells himself the shiver is because it stings, but he knows himself better than that. "He never listened to me either."

"It's just part of the job," Spencer argues. "The calluses build up eventually."

“But why hurt yourself on purpose?” Ryan argues, and it hits far closer to home than he probably means it to.

Brendon’s always high as a kite after shows, and Spencer’s seen him work that energy off with a lot of different people over the years. He knows that’s not the only reason Brendon invited Ryan to watch, but seeing them pressed up against each other in the back of the cab to the hotel, barely keeping it together to not kiss in public, leaves the rest of them in no doubt about what’s going to happen once they get to the hotel.

"Bar?" Ian asks, as Brendon all but drags Ryan toward the elevators. Spencer guesses he's either bunking with Ian and Dallon on the sofa in their room, or waiting until Ryan's worn Brendon out. Which is kind of hard to do.

"Yes," Spencer says, tiredly. "Bring me all the beer and bar snacks."

Dallon touches his shoulder gently as they sit down, Ian already ordering.

"Does it bother you?" he asks "It must be hard to get used to."

"No," Spencer says. "They're my best friends. They're happy. Shit, for a time there I thought they wouldn't even speak again, so no. I'm happy for them."

"Hmm," Dallon says, but doesn't continue, instead relieving Ian of one of the bottles of beer, and a basket of sweet potato fries.

Spencer lets Dallon and Ian's conversation and the hum of the bar wash over him as he sips his beer and eats the fries, and half of Dallon's order of buffalo wings, and tries and fails not to think about what Brendon and Ryan are doing, four floor above. About Brendon still damp from his shower, alight with performance high, and what Ryan might do to leech that out. He knows the reason Brendon didn't strip tonight is the matched set of bruises on his hips, purple marks the size of Ryan's mouth on his biceps, and he thinks about Brendon laid out under Ryan, waiting for his marks, and he feels like the worst person in the world.

"Hey, Ian," he says, taking a pull of his beer, "you see George Lucas is claiming Han never shot first?"

"He's such an asshole," Ian says, and he's off on a familiar rant. Spencer smiles, and joins in, covering the unneccessariness of CGI Jabba, how 3D _Episode One_ was still _Episode One_ and therefore still crap, and how no one who could consider themselves a true fan would ever, ever believe that Han didn't shoot first. It's a rant that Spencer's familiar with from long bus journeys, and it's one he agrees with, so he's soon joining in, letting it distract him as much as it can.

Dallon taps out halfway through their discussion as to just why Leia is a better role model (and way, way hotter) than Padme.

"I'll leave you two to it," he says, patting Spencer on the shoulder. "Besides, everyone knows _Star Trek_ is better."

"You could not be more wrong," Spencer says. He's four beers in, a little tipsy, but he hasn't thought about Brendon or Ryan in the last hour, so he's calling it a win.

"Yeah," Dallon says. "And, Spence, we have a sofa in our room. If you need it."

"Thanks," Spencer says, and manages a smile. "I might."

Ian picks at the bar nuts and pretzels, and says,  
"It was a good show."

"Yeah," Spencer says, "it was. I'm ready for a proper break now, though. Months off."

"I might fill in on some Cab stuff," Ian says. "You know, give them a hand."

"I don't know where you get the energy," Spencer says.

"Like you're so old." Ian kicks him on the ankle.

"I feel it." Spencer yawns and stretches. He feels about 100 years old, and only some of that is post-show come down. The other part is realising that this is going to be it now. Brendon and Ryan are going to do this all the time. He's going to be the one left behind.

"Come on then, old man." Ian slides of the stool and tugs at Spencer until he can stand. Spencer feels the alcohol hit him, a little tipsy, and he sticks close to Ian as they ride up in the elevator.

Ian and Dallon's room is closest to the elevator, and Spencer pauses at the door.

"Night," he says.

"Hey, Spence," Ian says, and curls his hand around the back of Spencer's neck, and Spencer's kissing back before he realises it, a soft slide of lips, sweet and almost comforting.

"What was that for?" he asks, when he draws back. Ian's leaning against the wall, smiling.

"You looked sad," he says. "You don't usually, after shows. Doesn’t have to mean anything. I just wanted to cheer you up."

"Thanks," Spencer says, for lack of anything else. "I better go and see if my bed is fit for sleeping in."

"Room in here," Ian says, tilting his head. "The sofa, or..."

Spencer hears the offer, and he wishes, oh, how he wishes he could take him up on it, could feel something more than fond appreciation. Ian is fun and easy (in every sense of the word). But he's not Ryan. He's not Brendon.

"I'm totally going to make them front for another room if I have to," he says. "Brendon's going to owe me for life."

Ian laughs.

"Night, Spencer," he says.

"Night." Spencer grins back.

The room is quiet when he gets there, the AC humming gently. He walks softly so as not to wake Brendon or Ryan, and slides between the sheets of the pristine bed closest to the bathroom. As his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in from the street, he sees them both, Brendon curled around Ryan, sleeping on his bare chest, Ryan's hand in his hair.

"Night, Spence," Ryan mumbles, clearly nearly asleep. Brendon shifts closer to him.

"Night, Ry," Spencer breathes, choking on the words. He turns, his back facing the wall, and falls asleep to Brendon and Ryan's breathing.

Spencer gets up first the next morning, leaving Brendon and Ryan still sleeping. He winces as the hot water stings his hands in the shower. Dallon's probably right, he thinks. Next tour, he's going to need gloves.

They're awake when he finally opens the bathroom door, still in bed but talking quietly. Ryan's loose and relaxed, sprawled out on the sheets with his hair spread out over the pillow. He blinks up sleepily at Spencer and smiles slowly.

"Morning," he says.

"Hey, Spencer," Brendon says. His voice is gravelly, and he reaches his arms high above his head as he stretches, back in a graceful curve. The sheets slip low and Spencer forces himself to look away, not stare at the definition of muscle, not imagine licking across from hip to hip.

"I'm gonna go get breakfast," he says. "You guys want anything?" Post-coital Ryan and Brendon are too much to cope with this early.

Brendon looks momentarily disappointed, and Ryan looks like he's going to say something, but then just shakes his head.

"Check out's at 11," Spencer reminds them, and escapes before he can do anything silly like climb into bed with them.

 

Spencer normally likes this time, the time between tours and albums, where he can do nothing much at all and not feel guilty. But now, all it means is that he doesn't have anything to distract him from Brendon and Ryan.

He throws himself into the arrangements for the next album, calling the label to draft contracts for Ian and Dallon for the tour and the writing. He makes Brendon read them, even though he's far more relaxed about things than Spencer.

"We need to think about producers as well," he says one evening. Brendon's lying lengthways on the sofa, hand hanging down to brush at Spencer's hair. Spencer leans into it and feels a tug of guilt every time.

"Hmm," Brendon says, "yeah, I suppose so. There's no rush, right?"

"Depends who we want," Spencer says. He knows he's pushing, but if he can think about this, about producers and studio time and how many tracks to put on the album and lyrics and melody, he can try _not_ to think about everything else.

"Butch?" Brendon asks. "We had fun last time."

"I was actually thinking…" Spencer hesitates, because he's heard horror stories from Ian and Greta, but. "Maybe Patrick?"

Brendon's hand stills, and Spencer knows this means he's thinking.

"Hmm," he says. "That's not a bad idea. At least for some of it. You know he's a raging perfectionist, though, right?"

"No." Spencer tips his head back so he can look Brendon in the eyes. "No, that had totally escaped my attention in all the years we've known him, and the tours we've shared."

Brendon laughs, and leans forward to tweak his nose, and Spencer is so in love with him he could cry.

"Ok," he says, "but when he's keeping us all up past 3 am for take 35, I'm going to remind Ian and Dallon it was your idea, and you'll have to deal with that."

"For that," Spencer says, digging his nails into the palm of his hand, "you can be the one to ask the label."

"And by the label, you mean Pete," Brendon says, suddenly serious. "Damn."

"He'll be ok," Spencer says, with a confidence he doesn't feel. "They're still friends."

"Like me and Ryan were still friends?" Brendon says.

"Well," Spencer says, joking, "not like you're friends _now_..."

Brendon laughs. "No. That's kind of his problem, right?"

"I am not even getting into that," Spencer says.

"Yeah," Brendon says. He sits up and swings his legs off the couch, setting his feet on the floor. "Dinner?"

"You not having it with Ryan?" Spencer asks. As far as he knows, Ryan hasn't really been back to his place for anything but clothes in nearly a month. He's writing, but seems perfectly happy to do it in Brendon's apartment or Spencer's kitchen.

"He's somewhere with Z," Brendon says. "Finnish puppet theatre or Romeo and Juliet acted out by Pez dispensers or some other shit."

"And you managed to resist?" Spencer asks. He stands, setting the laptop aside.

"Hey, I love him but seriously. Puppet theatre." Brendon shakes his head.

The casual way he says it makes Spencer smile, despite everything.

"I get you to myself then," he says, lightly, an echo of their old flirting, even though the words tear at his throat, an echo of lost chances.

"Alone at last, Spencer Smith," Brendon purses his lips. "Whatever shall we do?"

Despite Spencer having a whole list of answers to that question, mostly involving Ryan and nudity, they end up with Mexican take out, and a marathon of _Top Gear_ on Netflix. Ryan arrives just as the presenters are trying to drive a trailer down a narrow road, and failing quite epically.

"What are you watching?" Ryan asks. He kisses Brendon, then sits down next to Spencer and makes grabby hands for the bag of chips.

" _Top Gear_ ," Spencer says "I think they're about to set the trailer on fire if it's the episode I remember."

"How was the puppet theatre?" Brendon asks.

"Really moving," Ryan says, nodding. "The puppeteer had some really important things to say."

"Important." Brendon nods, but he can't stop the smile breaking out on his face.

"Shut up." Ryan throws a chip at him. "Why do I put up with you?"

Brendon leans across Spencer and kisses him, slow and thorough. Spencer shrinks back against the sofa and tries to ignore the pressure of Brendon's chest against his, and Ryan's hand braced on his thigh, long fingers stretching across.

"Oh," Ryan says, sounding a little dazed, "right, that's why."

"I'm going to bed," Spencer says abruptly. "I'm kind of tired. You guys can stay, if you want."

"No, hey," Brendon says. "Come on, Spence, you like this episode."

Ryan doesn't say anything, just snuggles closer to Spencer. "Tell me what I missed," he says.

Brendon starts to explain. Every time Ryan nods, his hair brushes Spencer's cheek. Spencer breathes in, and thinks about things he can't have.

 

 

Spencer's getting used to finding fragments of songs in odd places again. It's something Ryan used to do when they were kids, writing on any spare bit of paper he could find lying around. Sometimes they were notes, little messages to Spencer's mom, funny rhymes for the twins. Mostly though, they were just snippets of whatever was going through Ryan's head at the time, as if by writing them and leaving them, he could forget the emotions.

Spencer didn't save them, didn't want to remember, but these ones are new, short snippets on the edges of junk mail or half-phrases in pencil on the bottom of a takeout menu.

"You have notebooks," Spencer says one day, as Ryan yelps and tugs the flyer for a new pizza place out of the recycling with, "I was still using that one!"

"Notebooks are for finished ones," Ryan says.

"I know." Spencer shakes his head. "Finished any others, or do I have to get you more takeout menus?"

He likes that Ryan's showing him his songs again; Brendon's supportive and proud, but Ryan seems to feel it's asking for arguments to talk too much about their respective songwriting attempts. Spencer likes that Ryan trusts him with his lyrics, likes even more that they are happy, hopeful songs. Although it kills him, Brendon's good for him.

"I have one," Ryan says diffidently. "It took a while to get right, but I'm really proud of it. I can show it you, if you like?"

"Does it have music?" Spencer asks. He slides the recycling bin back under the sink. The empty beer bottles clink against each other.

"Not yet," Ryan says. "I wrote it for someone specific, but I'm not sure about the tune."

He slides off the tall stool he's been perching on and bends to grab the notebook out of his bag.

"Here," he says, opening the book to about halfway through. It's one Spencer bought him, he recognises, covered in purple and grey swirls, the paper inside smooth and creamy.

"This one," Ryan says, pointing with a long finger. "It took me a long time to finish, it was difficult to write."

He hands over the book and disappears to hang with Brendon in the living room. He's never liked being there when someone reads his lyrics if he can help it.

Ryan's handwriting is terrible, but Spencer has a lot of experience in deciphering it.

He reads the short piece, carefully copied out in blue pen, and his heart sinks. He reads it through twice to make sure, the sadness turning to anger at the cowardly way Ryan just left. That neither of them could fucking _tell him_ to his face.

_Held too close, starts to fade  
to bitter words and broken dreams_

_Different paths, ships that pass  
we're both afloat, apart,  
watch it sink and watch me drown_

_Time's a thief, stealing me away  
box of memories, salad days  
not enough to ask to stay_

_Broken free, watch it soar  
Patterned wings against the sun  
too bright for night time things._

He slams the notebook shut and leaves it on the counter before he storms into the living room. Ryan and Brendon are curled up together on the couch, Brendon's arm round Ryan's waist, two fingers tucked into the tight waistband of his pants.

"Hey." Ryan smiles at him, beaming. "Did you like it?"

"Did I -- is this some kind of joke?" Spencer asks. Brendon turns too, frowning.

"Spencer?" he asks

"Did I _like_ being told that I'm _suffocating_ you?" Spencer says. The words run around in his head, sinking, drowning, holding on too tight.

"That's not --" Ryan starts, but he's still on Spencer's sofa, still curled up into Brendon, and it's like someone else has taken control of Spencer's vocal cords, pouring out everything he feels

"I'm _sorry_ , ok?" he says. "I'm sorry I love you both so fucking much that I like having you around all the time. I'm sorry that's so bad that my two best friends had to run away and I'm sorry that I'm clearly some kind of dark _thing_ that stops you and Brendon being beautiful butterflies, but I can't just stand here and tell you I like a song that's clearly about how _happy_ you both are _without me_!"

Brendon's frowning and Ryan's opening his mouth to argue, Spencer can tell. But he doesn’t want to hear them persuade him to stay, to hear all the patter about how they love him, just not like that, so he sweeps out of the living room and down the hall, grabbing his coat and his car keys on the way.

Of course, once he's in the car, he realises he's stormed out of his own house. He can't go back, not while Ryan and Brendon are still there, but he doesn't really know where else to go, either.

He drives around for a bit, feeling heartsick and tired. He should have realised something like this would happen. It couldn't last like this forever, Ryan and Brendon happily sharing space without realising what he felt for both of them. It hurts even more to think that even his friendship is unwelcome. But Ryan's always used his lyrics to reflect what he's thinking, and the lines about soaring and breaking free are hard to interpret any other way.

He's only half concentrating on the road, and it takes the blaring horn of an SUV to bring him back to full awareness. He makes a 'my fault' gesture and takes the next exit.

So, of course, he ends up at Pete's. He doesn't even know if he's in LA, but the gate code works and he needs someone who won't ask questions, who won't judge, and Pete's the best person he knows for both of those things.

He leans on the doorbell until Pete answers it, standing in the doorway in a hoodie and jeans worn through at the knee, hair unstraightened. Hanging out clothes, not Pete Fucking Wentz clothes, which at least means he’s not going anywhere.

"Spencer?" Pete asks, frowning. "Everything ok, dude?"

Spencer knows he should say something but he feels like if he opens his mouth he won't know where to stop, so he just shakes his head and steps forward into the house. Pete seems to get it, because he's stretching up to hug him tightly, and Spencer goes with it. It's so good, so fucking good to just be hugged by someone he's not in love with. Pete cradles the back of his head and makes quiet shushing noises until Spencer finally lets go.

"Want to talk about it?" Pete asks. His eyes are impossibly kind.

"No," Spencer says, horrified at the shake in his own voice.

"Want to hit things 'til you're too tired to think?" Pete asks instead.

"Fuck yes," Spencer says.

"You know the way," Pete says. "Take as long as you like."

Pete's studio has a couple extra guitars perched haphazardly against the way, including a tiny, child-sized one, and what looks suspiciously like a sparkly silver bass. The kit’s the same though, in pristine condition even though Pete doesn't play.

Spencer tugs the stool forward with his foot and looks around for the sticks. The kit's set up for Patrick. Not Andy, not even Black Cards-Spencer, and Spencer thinks Pete knows a thing or three about holding onto things even though they're over.

He plays. He doesn't focus on any one song, or even on any one style, just pounds and pounds away until his hands are sore and red, until his shoulders are stiff and his arms ache; he drums until he can forget, just for a little while. He only stops when he realises the fact the sticks are slippery is not sweat, but actually blood.

"Jesus," Pete says when he sees, and he makes Spencer rinse his hands under warm water and then pats them dry carefully before spraying something on them that forms a skin like a band-aid.

"You need to take better care of your hands," he says.

"Sorry, _Dad_ ," Spencer says, because it's pretty hilarious that Pete, of all people, is scolding him about bizarre injuries.

"Bronx has more sense," Pete says. He shoves him at the sofa and Spencer goes because Pete's deceptively heavy. "Sit down."

Spencer sits.

Pete disappears and comes back with a plate of burritos and beer. He picks up a burrito, and just looks at Spencer, chewing slowly. It unnerves Spencer enough that he starts to talk.

It's like a faucet's been turned on and he can't stop. He tells Pete about Brendon and Ryan, which he knew already. He tells them how Ryan is impossibly, beautifully happy and Brendon shines with it, how they so clearly love each other so much it hurts him, how he doesn't know how to feel, and he tells Pete that he's in love with both of them.

"Tell me something I don't know, Spencer," Pete says, and sets his empty beer bottle down.

"Yeah, well, they figured it out, too," Spencer says slowly. "And it was fine, or I thought it was fine, I was coping, and I love them both so much, they're my best friends. And Ryan's _writing_."

“I know,” Pete says, “I have some of his new stuff, it’s good. Happy.”

“I _know_ ,” Spencer says. “They’re so happy, but they don’t need me. Ryan even wrote a song about it, about how I’m, I don’t know, _stifling_ them.”

Pete frowns “Are you sure?”

“You didn’t see the song.” Spencer says. The burritos are heavy in his stomach, and he’s so tired. He just wants to hide away for a week and get used to the fact that his two best friends think he’s smothering them.

“No,” Pete says seriously, “but I have seen the way they both look at you.”

“We’re friends,” Spencer says, “they don’t look at me like anything. The flirting, that’s just _Brendon_. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Pete frowns at this, but Spencer says, "Just don't, Pete. Don't tell me they'll still be my friends, that it doesn't change anything. I don't want to think about it."

Somehow he's drunk through 3 bottles of beer in the time it took to explain. He yawns. Pouring his heart out is kind of tiring.

"You want to sleep here?" Pete asks.

"I don't think I'll sleep, but sure," Spencer says. He doesn't want to go home; for all he knows, Brendon and Ryan are still there.

"Ok." Pete grins. "You want to watch cartoons and pretend like we don't notice when it hits 4 am?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, "I really do."

Pete puts on _Howl's Moving Castle_ and all but pulls Spencer into his lap.

"Thanks for not picking Disney," Spencer says. At this point, it would remind him too much of Brendon to be much of a distraction.

"Give me some credit," Pete replies.

He holds Spencer tight, warm and comforting, through three movies and part of a fourth. The last thing Spencer remembers before finally falling asleep is Pete's strong, calloused hand, brushing through his hair.

It's past midday when Spencer wakes up. Pete's couch is huge and comfortable, so he's not as stiff as he could have been, but he still feels the effects of the drumming session yesterday, aches and strains across his shoulders and down his arms into his wrists.

Pete finds him and feeds him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and lets him kicks his ass at Lego Indiana Jones. Spencer would be amused that he's basically treating him like Bronx after a crying fit, but it's kind of what he needs, so he doesn't complain.

That is, until Pete turns to him and says,  
"You kind of have to go home at some point -- you know that, right?"

"Just because I beat you," Spencer says, but he knows he's right.

Pete pulls his phone out and waves it in front of Spencer's face.

"Do you know how many texts I had about you? They're _worried_."

"I've been gone for a day," Spencer says. "Brendon fucked off to Europe for a _month_!"

"And you emailed him every day and wore the call button out on your phone," Pete says. Spencer frowns, because that's a total exaggeration.

"Just go home," Pete says. "It's not going to be half as bad as you're imagining."

"Fine," Spencer says, only half joking. "But if this breaks up the band, I'm saying I told you so."

"They love you, dude." Pete has to stretch a bit to put his arm round Spencer's shoulders.

"I know. Just not the way I love them," Spencer says quietly.

He expects the house to be empty when he gets back, the sun already sinking down into early evening. Instead, Brendon's in the living room, feet tucked under him as he reads.

"B?" Spencer says, when Brendon just looks at him for long, uncomfortable minutes.

"You're a fucking idiot," Brendon says at last, standing up.

"Don't," Spencer says. "Don't try to tell me I'm wrong, I read the fucking song."

"Ryan's at mine," Brendon says, like he didn't say anything. "Seriously, Spencer, you guys can pretty much read each other's _minds_ , how could you not have got it?"

"Got what?" Spencer sits down. "I get it just fine -- you two are happy and better off without me, now that I'm not _drowning_ you or whatever."

"Did you forget everything you know about Ryan? About _me_?" Brendon's nearly shouting now, that sharp voice he uses when someone he loves is hurting. As if Spencer needed any more confirmation. "It's for _Pete_ ," Brendon says. "Actually for Pete. Not for the label, or one of his new bands. For Pete, and the Black Cards."

"I don't get it," Spencer says, because all he can think is no, it's about him, it has to be.

"You're so dumb," Brendon says, annoyed. "It's called 'If you love something set it free,' ok? Think about how that could _possibly_ work for Pete. I'm going back home. We had takeout last night. Ryan put some leftovers in the fridge for you."

He hesitates, but kisses Spencer on the cheek, and slips out the door before Spencer can react.

Spencer stretches out, still achy and sore, and stares at the ceiling. He wishes he had the lyrics to look over again, to see how they fit to Pete, but he doesn't really need them. He remembers the mix of sadness and pride on Pete's face when they announced the tour with Patrick, the fierce way he defends him, the way he held off doing anything at all that might distract from Patrick's solo stuff. It would be just like Ryan, Spencer thinks, to see that. And he'd be proud, too, because even after all this time, there's a tiny part of Ryan that thinks Pete's opinion is the only one that matters.

He's not really hungry, but he makes himself get off the sofa eventually to get the leftovers. It's everything he likes, cold noodles and beef with broccoli, which both Ryan and Brendon hate. Feeling this shitty would be a lot easier if they'd both stop being so fucking good to him, he thinks.

He eats a few forkfuls of noodles, just to have eaten something, and slowly climbs the stairs to bed. He doesn't notice the note until he's brushed his teeth and found clean sleep pants, but there it is, a small, folded square of paper on the nightstand, tucked under the lamp.

He unfolds it. It's Ryan's writing

_The sun shone brighter than the moon and stars, but they were not afraid_

He falls asleep still trying to figure out what it means.

The meaning is no clearer the next morning when he wakes up. Without Pete's distractions, the knot of sadness and anger and confusion is back in his stomach, and he's even more confused now, supposing that Brendon's right, and the song _isn't_ Ryan's way of telling him to back off. He's not closer to working out after a long, hot shower, but at least his shoulders aren’t as stiff any more.

There's sounds of movement downstairs, and Spencer kind of regrets giving Ryan and Brendon both keys. He finds them in the kitchen, just sitting at the breakfast bar. They're holding hands and talking quietly, but look up when he taps on the door frame.

Brendon doesn't say anything, just stretches out his spare hand, and looks pleading. Ryan's eyes are huge and amber in the late morning light, and he looks at Spencer too, and tilts his head to the side in a silent question.

They don't look angry. They look...expectant. Spencer steps forward into the sunlit kitchen and takes Brendon's hand, so much smaller than his own and Ryan's. Brendon tugs him forward, and somehow he's in the middle of a hug, Ryan's long arms wrapping round his shoulders and Brendon holding him tightly around his waist. Spencer clings, tucking his face into the crook of Ryan's neck and breathing in the mingled scents of Brendon and Ryan, coconut and wood smoke and warmth. Home. He has no idea what is going on.

Eventually Ryan pulls back and says, "Sit down."

Spencer's knees are feeling a bit wobbly, so he does as he's told.

"I see you've forgotten everything you ever knew about metaphor," Ryan says, teasing.

"Also, dude." Brendon puts his hand on his knee, rubbing through his sweatpants. "I've been in love with you for years."

Spencer opens his mouth to say, "What?" but Ryan cuts him off with,  
"I don't know how someone couldn’t love you after growing up with you." He rubs slowly down Spencer's biceps until he's cradling his elbow.

Spencer can't quite process everything that's happening, because this is touching with intent, and he doesn't know how that fits in with what Brendon and Ryan already have.

"Like I said," Brendon says. "The song was about Pete and Patrick. And about how the band is better off now that we've worked some shit out. How could you not get that?"

"You did kind of have the inside track on that one, B," Ryan says fondly. He still hasn't let go of Spencer.

Brendon's fingers are smoothing across his knee, and he chuckles as he says, "Ok, that's true."

Ryan says "Aren't you going to say anything, Spence?"

Spencer shakes his head, like that will make everything make sense. In the back of his mind, he hears _I have seen the way they both look at you._ and wonders if Pete meant what he sees now, hope and want and something that might be love.

"I… kind of need to process this," he says. "I'm kind of not awake properly yet."

"Coffee," Brendon says, and gets up to switch the coffee maker on. Ryan takes hold of both of Spencer's hands, like he's scared Spencer's going to run away. His cuffs ride up and Spencer finds himself rubbing his thumbs over the tattooed words.

"How could you not know?" Ryan asks quietly. "How could you not get how I felt? After everything?" He squeezes his hands

"I was 14," Spencer says, knowing what Ryan means. "You said it didn't count, it was just kiss practicing."

"It counts now," Ryan says.

Brendon puts coffee cups on the breakfast bar, and presses his lips against Ryan's temple.

"We've talked about this," he says seriously. Brendon is so rarely completely serious, only for the things he is most dedicated too, and it's the same tone of voice as when he told them he was moving out, that he'd picked the band over his parents. "We both want this. I want to kiss you, and I want to see Ryan kiss you, and I want you to watch while I kiss Ryan and then have you kiss him right after. We want you. We want to try."

Spencer thinks, _This can't actually be real_ , but then Brendon's leaning past Ryan and kissing him.

His lips are so soft, and he doesn't push, just presses his lips gently against Spencer's until Spencer gasps and kisses back, kisses Brendon like he's wanted to for so long. Brendon pulls back, but before Spencer can say anything, Ryan's hand is on his jaw, turning him, and it's like being 14 all over again, Ryan kissing him like he owns him, Spencer giving as good as he gets. It's so different from Brendon's kiss, but it's still exactly what he needs.

"You mean it," he says, when Ryan pulls back. Somehow he's got hold of one of Brendon's hands as well as one of Ryan's. Brendon squeezes his hand.

"We do," he says. "Shit, Spencer, how could you think we didn't?"

"For real?" Spencer asks. "I don't, I don't know how this works."

"Well, neither do we," Ryan says, and he kisses Spencer's temple affectionately. "Not as a serious thing. I mean, me and Alex and Z used to fuck around, but there were always other people too."

"In case you're wondering," Brendon says, and they're so smooth together, him and Ryan. Like they're rehearsed this. Like they've been talking about it for a long time. "That's not the case here. This isn't a one-off thing."

Spencer's not sure what to say, and Brendon steps back, lets go of his hand, so that Spencer can't feel his heat.

"And if you don't want that, that's fine," Brendon says, hurriedly, like he wants to get it out. "You're still my best friend, we can still tour. You can room with Ian.”

He looks brave, determined, already pulling away and making the best of things, like Brendon does. Spencer finds his voice.

"No," he says. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" Ryan asks.

"Just kiss me again," Spencer says, already leaning in.

"Who do you mean?" Ryan asks, hand coming up to brush Spencer's hair out of his face.

"Both of you," Spencer says against his lips, and behind him, Brendon lets out a sigh of relief.

They only manage one kiss, Brendon's lips on his neck and Ryan doing something wonderful with his tongue, before Ryan overbalances and nearly pulls Spencer to the floor with him as he falls off the tall stool.

"Graceful." Brendon laughs, stepping back.

"I have a couch?" Spencer offers. He feels giddy and light.

"Yes, one that is excellent for making out on," Brendon waggles his eyebrows.

"Well, you and Ryan seem to have been taking advantage of that," Spencer says.

"We kept hoping you'd get the hint," Ryan says, and he wraps his hand round Spencer's wrist to tug him into the living room. "Seriously, Spencer."

"You guys were so happy, I felt bad watching. I didn't think." Spencer says, letting Brendon tug him down onto the couch to rest against his chest. Ryan follows him down, kisses Brendon over Spencer's shoulder. Spencer lets himself watch this time, looks his fill as their mouths meet and part.

"You can look all you want," Ryan says, "but I think Brendon's been waiting even longer than me, so you should kiss him."

"Bossy," Spencer says, but Brendon looks so eager that he's kissing him even before he finishes the word.

Brendon's a lot less tentative than he was in the kitchen, but still kisses so slowly, mapping every bit of Spencer's mouth, hands lazily stroking up and down Spencer's back. Spencer presses forward and cups Brendon's jaw, rubbing his thumb over one cheekbone, feeling the tickle of Brendon's eyelashes against his cheeks as his eyes flutter closed again.

"You're both so beautiful." Ryan's voice is soft and reverent, and Spencer laughs into the kiss, because if anyone's beautiful, it's Brendon and Ryan, flushed and happy.

"Hey, I'm serious," Ryan protests, and Spencer kisses him, likes the idea that maybe Ryan can taste something of Brendon on his lips. Brendon just moves his mouth to press small kisses along Spencer's jaw, down to his neck, still just as slow, like he's trying to convince Spencer that he'll like it. Like that was ever even in doubt.

They fit together on the couch just like every time they've ever watched movies, or cuddled together in a stoned pile, but this time Spencer can turn and kiss Ryan whenever he wants, can rub his lips over the curve of Brendon's jaw and taste the soft, secret place behind his ear. They make out in a tangled pile as the sun dips down into the afternoon, until Spencer's lips are numb from it and Brendon's are even fuller and pinker, and Ryan's hair is a tangled halo round his face because Spencer can't seem to stop running his hands through it as they kiss. He's wrapped up in them, in their scent and taste and touch and whispered words, and for the first time since Brendon came home with Ryan, he doesn't feel alone.

Two nights of little to no sleep catch up with him eventually, and he wakes with a jolt as Ryan shifts out from under him.

"Bedtime," Ryan says softly. Brendon's still asleep, snoring.

"Ngh," Spencer says, and forces his eyes open. It's dark outside, and he has no idea what time it is. The remains of the takeout they ordered are congealing on the side table. "You and Brendon can have the spare room," he suggests. "I still kind of need to think about the whole sex thing." It feels stupid saying it, but it’s a lot to take in all at once.

"Couch is fine," Ryan says. "You know me, I can sleep anywhere. I was just getting more comfortable."

"Then get back down here," Spencer says and holds out his arm for Ryan to crawl under. Ryan kisses the underside of his jaw as he arranges his arms round Spencer and burrows his toes under Brendon's thighs. Spencer feels Brendon reaching for them both as he slips back into sleep.

 

 

Brendon and Ryan are being patient in giving him time to think things through. It's not that he doesn't _want_ them. Now that he knows what it's like to wake up with Brendon wrapped around him, can kiss Ryan whenever he wants, he wants them more than ever. It's just such a big thing. There's so much at stake, years of friendship and the band -- and Brendon and Ryan's relationship, too. He just needs a few days to figure it all out.

"It's ok," Brendon says when Spencer explains. "I mean, I've had years to get used to how much I want you. Ryan, too. It doesn't affect how we feel about each other. We can be patient."

"We still get to make out though, right?" Ryan says, coming up behind Brendon and kissing his neck before reaching out toward Spencer.

"Maybe I just want to watch you and Brendon," Spencer says, because they are kind of ridiculously hot together, Brendon's curving muscles and Ryan's sharp angles, the span of Ryan's fingers on Brendon's hips, the contrast of pale skin and dark hair.

"I do like to put on a show," Brendon says, and twists to get his hands on Ryan, kisses him until they're both breathless, and Spencer's pressing his hand to his cock, half-hard just from the sounds they make.

"Not much longer," Spencer promises when they break apart, and both look at him with wide-pupilled eyes. "Promise."

"Spencer," Brendon says, rubbing their noses together "We know you're worth the wait. Take all the time you need."

 

They're in Brendon's kitchen making dinner when Spencer finally decides. He's chopping vegetables for Brendon to add to the stir fry, and Ryan's weaving in and out between them, grabbing bits of raw carrot and handing Spencer things when he asks for them. Spencer's slicing the red pepper, making rings of it, and Ryan picks up two of the rings and holds them up in front of his eyes so he looks like an owl, nudges Brendon with his hip so he turns and sees them.

"Hoooo," Ryan says solemnly, the same way he always used to. Spencer remembers the first time he did it, in Brendon's tiny, crappy apartment, cooking real food for him for the first time that month. Brendon had been brittle, sad, and Ryan had managed to startle a laugh out of him. Even then, he'd been one of the very few people Ryan had bothered about.

"Every time," Brendon says fondly. He plucks the peppers from Ryan's hands and gives them back to Spencer even as he's stretching to kiss Ryan.

They fit, Spencer thinks. All three of them fit into each other's spaces. He puts the knife down on the chopping board.

"Yes," he says.

Ryan looks at him.

"Yes?" he says, confirming.

"Yes." Spencer grabs both of them by the hand. "Yes. All of it. Now. Please."

It's like that's the magic word because Brendon unfreezes and steps forward, kissing him over and over as they stumble out of the kitchen and down the passageway to Brendon's room. Ryan switches on the lamp, and shuffles back on the bed, eyes wide, taking everything in.

"We can do anything," Brendon's saying in between hurried kisses. "Anything you want, Spencer, I've been thinking about this for so long."

Spencer doesn't know where to look, what to say. He's got Brendon kissing the breath out of him and Ryan stretched right out on the bed, all angles and lines, lit in gold.

"Naked," he says, because he wants to see if Ryan's like he remembers from when they were kids, wants to see _all_ of Brendon instead of nearly all of him. "That's what I want."

 

"You're easy to please." Ryan smiles, but he's already wriggling out of his pants and underwear, fingers tripping over the buttons of his shirt. Spencer's knees hit the bed as Brendon pushes him forward, and Ryan reaches out for him, kisses him like he wants to live inside his mouth, and says "Come on, Spence, don't be the odd one out."

Spencer's caught on the fragility of Ryan's collarbones, his surprisingly broad shoulders, his narrow chest and small nipples and thick, heavy cock, and he doesn't realise what Ryan means until he feels Brendon's hands slide round him, unbuttoning his pants.

"Of course you get naked in 10 seconds," Spencer says, turning and seeing Brendon, naked and openly staring. He's used to Brendon being most of the way naked -- it's a very good view from behind the kit -- but now he can see all of him, flat, muscled stomach, his cock half hard and nestled in his neatly trimmed pubic hair, Ryan's marks on his hips and stomach and thighs, the deep dimples at the base of his spine.

"Like what you see?" Brendon does a 360 turn and Ryan and Spencer both say "Yes" in unison.

"He's really fucking hot," Ryan murmurs in Spencer's ear. "All those new muscles. It was like fucking Christmas, first time I got him naked."

Brendon actually blushes at that. Spencer is fascinated by the pink flush staining his cheeks. "You say the sweetest things." Brendon kneewalks onto the bed and kisses Ryan, then says "Seriously Spencer, why aren't you naked yet?"

"You keep distracting me," Spencer says, and then Ryan's hands are at the hem of his shirt, pulling up and off, and Brendon's dragging his pants down, then his underwear, and he's naked.

"Gorgeous," Brendon says, and he blankets Spencer's body with his own and kisses him. Ryan's mouth is on his neck, down across his collarbones, and they've made out a lot in the past few days, sure, but not like this. Not with nothing between them, the hot press of skin on skin, the rub of Ryan's hardening nipples against his arm as he twists to get to more of Spencer's skin, licking and nibbling across his neck, Brendon's hands tracing lower and lower over his stomach to wrap around his cock.

Spencer groans at the first couple of twisting strokes, and then Brendon pulls back and says,  
"How about I blow you?"

Ryan groans at that just as loud as Spencer does.

"Yes, yes," Spencer says, because Brendon's mouth is indecent at the best of times, but now it's red and swollen from his and Ryan's kisses, and Spencer really, really wants to know how it feels.

"Sit back," Ryan says, shuffling up against the headboard and pulling Spencer to sit between his spread legs. Spencer can feel Ryan's dick against his back, hard, and he does a little shimmy to make Ryan moan again at the pressure.

"Jesus," Brendon says, "god -- you, both of you."

"Yes," Spencer says. "Same." It's not exactly coherent, but he's got Ryan rubbing at his nipples and licking his ear, and Brendon naked, already sheened in sweat, ducking down to suck on the head of Spencer's cock, so he's kind of impressed he managed any words at all.

Brendon's mouth is hot, wet, and fucking _perfect_. Spencer wants to jerk forward into it, but Brendon puts one hand on his hip in warning and sucks him so so slowly Spencer thinks he's going to lose his mind. Ryan's not helping, kissing him in fast, brutal counterpoint to Brendon's slow slide of mouth and hand. Spencer just gasps, trying to snatch in breaths of air as much as he can, because Brendon's driving closer and closer to the edge with every torturous lick. Ryan rests his chin on Spencer's shoulder so he can look down at Brendon, too, and rubs Spencer's nipple, which sends small sparks of pleasure through Spencer. He feels like an instrument that Brendon and Ryan are learning to play together.

"He's amazing, isn't he?" Ryan says in his deep voice. It's sex-rough, and Spencer recognises the sound from years of shared quarters. "God, Spencer, I've thought about this so many times, you, him, all of us together. How you'd look when he made you come, what you'd feel like against me, how long we could keep you, if we could make it good enough for you to stay."

"Ryan," Spencer pants, because Brendon's speeding up now, long, swirling licks along his whole length, and one of Ryan's hands is covering Brendon's on Spencer's hip, their fingers interlaced. "God, Ryan I'm yours, yours and Brendon's, I've been so, I want --"

"All of it," Ryan whispers. "It's all yours, _Spencer_ \--" and he kisses him again just as Brendon sucks hard on the head of his cock and Spencer gives up and comes, keening into Ryan's mouth, hands clenched tight.

Ryan pets down his chest as he tries to catch his breath, and when he opens his eyes the first thing his sees is Brendon, wiping his mouth, licking his thumb thoughtfully.

"You're sweeter than Ryan," he says.

Ryan chuckles, but Spencer surges up and gets his hands on Brendon, pushing him flat onto the bed and kissing him, licking his own come out of Brendon's mouth.

"Let me," Ryan's saying, and Spencer pulls back so Ryan can kiss Brendon too, and Spencer knows he's chasing his taste.

Brendon's hard and leaking, and Ryan says,  
"What do you need, B?" quiet, intense.

"God, anything," Brendon says. "Spencer, you, anything -- Ryan, I'm so close."

Ryan takes pity on him and wraps one long-fingered hand around Brendon's cock and Brendon makes a small breathy whimper. Spencer groans quietly, because it's just how he imagined, those long, clever fingers jerking Brendon expertly as Brendon thrashes around and grabs Spencer's arm

"Kiss me," he says. "Spencer, please I'm so close, just fucking kiss me."

Spencer does as he's told. Brendon still tastes a bit of come; his lips are hot against Spencer's, swollen, and Spencer makes himself be gentle, take short, soft kisses from Brendon no matter how much he wants to push forward. Brendon sighs when he comes, a puff of air over Spencer's lips.

"Your hands," Brendon says, wonderingly, as Ryan wipes his hand off on the sheets.

"I know what you mean." Spencer giggles into Brendon's neck. "I used to get so distracted watching him practice."

"I'm feeling a little objectified here," Ryan says, but he's smiling as he says it, and Spencer has to stretch up to kiss him, thank him for making Brendon look like that, flushed and beautiful and wide-eyed.

"Spencer," Ryan pants, "please,"

"Please what?" Spencer asks.

"Can I fuck you?" Ryan grits out. "Please?"

"You thought I'd say no?" Spencer asks as a fresh surge of arousal courses through him.

"I'm totally ok with that, too," Brendon says, "in case either of you were wondering."

Ryan flicks his nose and says "For that, you can get Spencer ready."

"Oh, the hardship." Brendon pouts, pushing his lower lip out.

Ryan leans forward and nips it between his teeth, and says "Behave."

Brendon's fingers aren't as long and slender as Ryan's but they're strong and just fucking perfect as he opens Spencer up, and he doesn't stop touching Spencer as Ryan fucks him, petting and stroking all over, down Spencer's arms, across his chest, as Ryan's hips snap and he pants Spencer's name over and over again into his shoulder. Every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through Spencer, and he can feel himself getting hard again as Ryan fucks him, as Brendon mouths across his collarbones, bites down in the same place as Ryan has a purple mark, making them a matched set. Spencer flails out a hand and grabs Ryan's hand, guides it down to his cock and shapes his grip until Ryan gets the idea and jerks him in time with his thrusts.

"He's close," Brendon whispers to Spencer. "He's so beautiful when he comes, debauched. I want to make him look like that all the time. You should fuck face to face next time so you can see."

Spencer groans and grinds back onto Ryan, clenching around him, and Ryan moans as he comes, rough, long, drawn-out vowels, mingling with Spencer's own cry as Ryan's grip tightens and wrings a second orgasm out of him.

Ryan pulls out and then cuddles up to Spencer. He's all floppy and lax, something Spencer's seen, but never expected to be the cause of.

"He's useless after sex." Brendon sounds fond, and he slips out of the room into the bathroom. Spencer takes the chance to steal a look at his ass and think about biting it.

"It's as good as you think it is," Ryan says. "You should totally fuck him next time, that would be so hot. He loves it so much."

"You're going to do that creepy mindreading thing in bed now, aren't you," Brendon says, coming back into the room with some damp washcloths and wiping Spencer off, so carefully, like he's something precious. Spencer raises an eyebrow at Ryan, who nods, and they both pull Brendon down on the bed and kiss him, mouths meeting in a messy tangle of tongues and teeth.

"Ok," Brendon says, wriggling to get in the middle. "Not creepy. Awesome."

"Mmmm," Spencer says, and snuggles closer, slinging an arm across Brendon's chest to grab onto Ryan's hand.

Spencer floats for a bit, breathing in the scent of all three of them, but he always gets hungry after sex, and soon his stomach is rumbling.

Ryan bursts out laughing, carefree and loud.

"Do we need to feed you?" he asks.

"That was totally hard exercise," Spencer says. "I deserve food."

"Come on," Brendon says, getting up, "we can finish cooking, since you interrupted us."

"Didn't hear you complaining," Spencer says.

"Not complaining," Brendon says, seriously. "Not complaining at all."

They get dressed in a jumbled collection of odd socks and underwear. Spencer has Ryan's soft button down on, and Ryan's swimming in his T-shirt. Brendon just pulls on the first pair of boxers he puts his hands on, and pads out to the kitchen.

It's late, and the full moon shines into the kitchen window as they make dinner, stopping to kiss and touch, even as Spencer tries to keep an eye on the wok and not burn Brendon's place down. Ryan holds onto his hips as he stirs the vegetables, and Brendon kisses the back of his neck softly as he turns the burners off and divides the stir fry between three bowls. They carry it back to Brendon's room and all squash into the bed to eat, trading the bowls back and forth because Brendon hates broccoli but always puts it in for Spencer.

"We're going to need bigger mattresses," Ryan says after the third time he nearly falls out of bed. "I mean, my bed's big enough, but Spencer's isn't and yours is only ok if we don't want to actually _move_."

Brendon puts his bowl down on the floor and loops his arm around Spencer's shoulders to tug him closer.

"You think this is bad," he says, "try when you come out to see us on tour. It's a good thing I'm little -- you and Spencer have those freakish arms and legs."

And that's when it really hits Spencer that _they get to keep doing this_. That this isn't a one-off, that he can have his best friends and be in love with his best friends and that Ryan and Brendon love him _back_. He's so thankful he's almost shaking with it.

"We'll make it work," he says confidently. "We have time to figure it out."

"Yeah, we do," Ryan says, and he kisses Spencer, and leans across to do the same to Brendon. They both wrap their arms round Spencer, and Spencer falls asleep between one breath and the next, surrounded by Ryan and Brendon, and finally feeling like all the pieces have snapped back together again.

**Epilogue**

Ryan strums the last few chords and puts the guitar down, out of sight of the webcam. It's hot, squashed into the bunk with Brendon and balancing the laptop on their knees, but they're three weeks into the tour and Ryan can't make it out for another week, and they _miss_ him, so Skype has to make up for it.

"You like it?" Ryan says "Spencer, you want me to explain it to you?"

Spencer flips off the webcam.

"That was one time," he says. "I got this one. Though I still say I'm not the sun. You've seen how I burn."

"Your smile," Brendon says, because he's as much of a hopeless romantic as Ryan is.

"Play the last chorus again?" Spencer asks, and Ryan does, his fingers sure on the guitar, his voice warm and cracked. It still sounds a bit like the Beach Boys, but he's working in some heavier Kinks influences, and Spencer's tapping his foot along with it. As the last note rings out he turns and kisses Brendon, holding onto his sweaty biceps, palm flat against the tattoo of sun, moon, and stars.

"Hey." Ryan's face is closer to the camera now. "I wrote the song, I should be getting kisses."

"I can't help it if my talented boyfriend gets me hot," Spencer says, grinning.

"Yeah, well, mine get me hot." Ryan smiles, and runs his hand through his hair. The curls reach just to his ears, the summer heat too hot for long hair. Spencer kind of misses it. "And luckily the whole internet agrees with me and provides me with YouTube. B, I'm loving the stripping thing you've got going on again."

"All for you." Brendon winks at the camera.

"Although if you could persuade Spencer to get in on that, that would be even better," Ryan says.

"No way." Spencer smiles. "I'm the sensible one in this relationship -- stripping is for home, not the stage."

"Sensible wouldn't be with us," Ryan says.

Spencer kisses Brendon again, and blows a kiss to Ryan. _One more week_ he reminds himself

"Hey," he says, taking Brendon's hand and squeezing it, wishing Ryan was there as well. "This is the most sensible thing I've ever done."

END


End file.
